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S. G. and E. L. ELBERT 






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TO PARENTS. 



Several years ago, I published a little pe- 
riodical called The Juvenile Miscellany It 
found favour in the eyes of parents and chil- 
dren ; and since it has been out of print, I 
have had frequent requests to republish it. 
1 did not think it advisable to do this. But 
I have concluded to publish a series of small 
books, under the title of Flowers for Children. 
About half of each of these volumes will con- 
sist of new articles written expressly for the 
occasion ; and the other half will be a selection 
of w^hat seem to me the best of my own 
articles, formerly published in the Juvenile 
Miscellany. Upon reviewing the work for 
this purpose, I find that my maturer judg- 
ment rejects some inaccuracies, some moral 
inferences, and many imperfections of style. 



Vm DEDICATION. 

I have therefore carefully re-written all the 
articles used in the present selection. 

The story of the Christ-Child and the Poor 
Children was suggested by the account of the 
Redemption Institute at Hamburg, by Horace 
Mann, in his late admirable Report on Edu- 
cation. It would be well for all parents, teach- 
ers, and magistrates, to read that account, and 
receive deeply into their hearts the lesson it 
conveys. 

L. M. C. 



THIS BOOK 

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 

TO 

LITTLE JOHN. 



FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN, 



Dart S 



THE CHRIST-CHILD 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN 
/ 




^/(^EiNRicH LuDwiG llved ia a 
narraw dirty court in the 
city of Hamburgh, in Ger- 
riiany. The sun never caaie 
there, and no green tree 
was to be seen. It is a 
great evil to spend child- 
hood in such a dismal home ; but all over 
the world there are thousands of poor chil- 
dren, who never see the beautiful things 
which God made for all creatures to enjoy. 
Poor little Heinrich ! his father was a drunk- 
ard ; and sickness and trouble had so chang- 
ed his mother, that she was sometimes stupid 
and crazy. At such times, she would sit 
with her head leanino^ on her hands all the 
life-long day, and no one could get a word 
from her. Little Heinrich did not know 



10 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

what to think of his mother when she had 
these fits. When he first began to walk 
alone, he would tottle up to her, and pull 
her ragged gown, and stoop down to peep 
up in her face, and try all manner of baby 
ways to attract her attention. But she look- 
ed at him with strange eyes, for she did not 
know him ; and if he continued to pull at 
her gown, and call " Mammy, mammy," she 
would sometimes push him, so that he fell 
backward on the floor. The poor child had 
nothing to do all day, but to tumble about 
among bad boys in a dirty court, and dig 
holes in the mud. If he heard his father's 
voice, he would run and hide himself; for he 
almost always came home drunk, and would 
beat the little boy, if he happened to be in 
the humour. It was a sad sight to see poor 
little Heinrich at nightfall, with his father 
drunk on the floor, and his mother staring 
stupidly into the air, without sense enough 
to know that her child w^as suffering. If he 
could find a cold potatoe, or a crust of bread, 
he would munch it like a hungry dog, take 
a sup of water from his little battered por- 
ringer, untie his ragged frock, as well as he 
could with such very small fingers, and creep 
into the little heap of rags that he called his 
bed. 



A.ND THE POOR CHILDREN. 11 

But Heinrich had some blessings. He 
was a healthy Httle thing, with a loving and 
nappy disposition. His mother was very 
kind-hearted, and when she was not crazy, 
she treated her little boy with great affec- 
tion. Often would she lie down beside him 
when he went to his little bed, and hold his 
hand m hers, and wet his bright hair with 
her tears. Alas, for the fond mother I she 
often went hungry herself, that the little one 
might have a scanty supper. The thought 
often came over her, " What does my poor 
boy do when the fits are on me, when he has 
no one to care for him ? " This would make 
her weep bitterly. And so the little Hein 
rich seldom saw the sunshine or a smiling 
face. He heard cursing and swearing, but 
never the warbling of birds, or the ringing 
laughter of the innocent and happy. He 
learned of his mother the habit of sighing, 
and would look into her eyes with such a 
sad expression, that it made the heart ache. 
But when he was two years old, a little sister 
was born to him ; and this little sister be- 
came the blessing of his young life. She 
was very beautiful, with her golden hair, 
and her large blue eyes, so sad and gentle. 
After she came, like a sunbeam, into that 
dark and miserable home, the mother's health 



12 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

improved, and she had her fits more seldom. 
When they did come over her, it was heart- 
touching to see how that Uttle brother per- 
formed a mother's part. He would wash 
his sister's face, and comb her silky hair with 
a fragment of w^ooden comb, and every but- 
ton and bright thing he could find, he would 
string together for her amusement. When 
she needed more help than he could give, he 
would summon an old woman in the neigh- 
bourhood, who, though feeble and tottering, 
never refused to come when little Heinrich 
took hold of her apron, with one of his plead- 
ing looks. It was a beautiful sight to see 
the lovely children asleep in each others' 
arms, on their little heap of rags. They 
seemed like two little angels that had lost 
their way, and accidentally fallen asleep in 
that dismal court. Even the drunken father 
felt the tears in his eyes when he gazed upon 
them, and sometimes for a week after did 
not taste a drop of intoxicating liquor. 

It was indeed a blessing to Heinrich that 
he had little Gertrude to play with ; for he 
seldom wanted to be out of doors with the 
bad boys. They were rough and cruel, but 
Gertrude, with her sweet voice, her timid, 
gentle looks, and her loving ways, kept his 
heart tender. 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 13 

Wolfgang Turkhelm, grandson of the old 
woman who always came when little Hein- 
rich took hold of her apron, was a very rude, 
boisterous boy. He had not a bad heart, 
but he was bold and strong, and he had 
lived with people who taught him all man- 
ner of evil things. His father had been in 
prison several times for stealing. His mother 
died when he was four years old ; and his 
father had brought home a coarse, rough 
woman, who sold oysters. At night she 
came back with a bottle of rum, and they 
drank together till both of them were ready 
to fight with every body. When Wolfgang 
was very small, this woman used to encour- 
age him to quarrel with all the boys that 
came near him. "Come, my little game- 
cock," she would say, "go at him. Let 
father see how you can lick a boy twice as 
big as you are." Thus taught, Wolfgang 
thought it was brave and beautiful to fight ; 
and he became a perfect nuisance to the 
neighbourhood. Poor little Heinrich could 
not step out of doors to pick up sticks to build 
houses for Gertrude, without having Wolf- 
gang come out and knock them all out of 
his hands. Then he would say, " Pick them 
uj) again* if you <lon't, I'll kick you;" and 
when the patient lit tie fellow had picked them 



14 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

up, he would spill them all again, and burst 
into roars of laughter. He was two years 
older than Hemrich, and a great deal stouter 
and strono^er. Heinrich was verv much 
afraid of him, but once he was roused to 
fight. Little Gertrude was climbing up the 
door steps, with her small porringer of water 
in one hand, and holding up the rags of her 
robe with the other. She had much trouble 
to get along ; for the porringer was very full, 
and the tatters of her gown tangled her little 
naked feet. Wolfgang saw her, and tried to 
throw his leather ball so as to hit the por- 
ringer ; but instead of that, it hit her eye, and 
made her lose her balance and fall back- 
ward. She was not hurt very badly, but 
she cried out aloud with fright ; and Hein- 
rich flew at their troublesome neighbour like 
a wild cat. Wolfgang easily threw^ him 
down, and beat him and kicked him till he 
made the blood spout from his nose. He 
might have half killed him, if Heinrich's 
father had not happened to come along. 
He seized Wolfgang by the cohar, and gave 
him a terrible thrashing. Thus did they live 
like wild beasts, in that dark, dirty court. 
No one had ever taught them that there was 
a better way to conquer enemies, than by 
fighting and scolding. Violence always 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 15 

makes people worse than they otherwise 
would be. After that encounter, Wolfgang 
was more tormenting than ever ; and even 
the tender-hearted Heinrich began to grow 
more quarrelsome and fierce. When Wolf- 
gang came to the door, and snapped his 
fingers at him, and called, " Come out here, 
you poor little girl-boy ; come out and fight !" 
his heart was filled with rage and bitterness. 
He hated Wolfgang so badly, that he one 
night kicked his old cap all to pieces, and 
threw it out to the dogs. Thus these poor 
children were in the way to become thieves 
and murderers, and perhaps finally to die in 
prison or on the gallows, because they had 
nothing to encourage their good feelings, 
and everything to excite their bad passions. 
But our little Heinrich will be saved, and so 
will Wolfo^ano:. 

One day, when Heinrich was about seven 
years old, and Gertrude not quite five, they 
obtained leave to walk in the streets to see 
the show for Christmas, which was to be on 
the morrow. The shops were full of glitter- 
ing t-oys, the windows were hung with ever- 
greens, and many large boughs were carried 
through the streets, for the Christmas-tree of 
some rich man's children. Poor little Hein- 
rich looked with longing eyes, and wished 



16 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

that he and Gertrude could have a (^hrist- 
mas-tree. He gathered up, here and there, 
a green bough, which some servant had 
dropped on his way. " I will carry home 
these to mother," said he, " and she w^ill make 
us a Christmas-tree.'- " And will the Christ- 
child bring us anything to hang on our tree ?" 
asked little Gertrude. As she spoke, she 
raised her large sad-looking eyes to her 
brother's face, with a very earnest expres- 
sion. A gentleman, who was passing, heard 
what she said, and was struck with her inno- 
cent countenance. " Here, my little one," 
said he, " the Christ-child sends thee this," 
and he placed a small coin in her hand. He 
inquired where they lived, and wrote it on 
a card. 

Great was the joy of the children at re- 
ceiving the bit of money. They bought four 
apples and some nuts, and went home hap- 
pier than kings. " Here mother is a Christ- 
mas-tree," said Heinrich, displaying his 
evergreen boughs. " And see here ! see 
what the Christ-child sent us!" said little 
Gertrude, opening her ragged apron, and 
showing the apples and nuts. Tears came 
to the eyes of that poor mother ; for she had 
a kind heart, and loved her little ones, though 
she was too ill, and poor, and discouraged, 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 17 

to do much for them. She took a penny 
from the shelf, and told Heinrich to go and 
buy a taper to hang in the tree. " Oh mo- 
ther, shall we have our tree lighted, just as 
they do in the big houses ?" exclaimed Ger- 
trude ; and the usually quiet httle creature 
jumped about and sung. 

Rich people in Germany arrange the Christ- 
mas-tree privately, and keep the room care- 
fully shut, while beautiful presents of all kinds 
are hung upon it, to take the children by sur- 
prise. It is brilliantly lighted with coloured 
lamps, and over it floats a little angel-im- 
age with shining wings, which they call the 
Christ-child. The very small children think 
this Christ-child brings them all the pretty 
presents. And truly 

** There is an angel, who from Heaven comes, 
To bless and comfort all the little one&i 
Gues3 who it is, so good and mild. 
And gentle to each little child ? 

I'll tell thee It came from God above, 

And the spirit's name is Mother's Love." 

Heinrich and Gertrude could not have 
their tree prepared in another room, and 
lighted up to surprise them suddenly with 
its splendour ; for they had but one room, 
and a little strip of shed, where they and 
two or three other famihes kept brush and 

b 2 



18 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

chips. They had never seen the Christ 
child, with glittering wings, that floated over 
the Christmas-trees of the rich ; but the angel 
called Mother's Love was with them that 
night, and right happy were they arranging 
their Christmas-tree against a broken chair. 
The mother went into the shed to get a 
piece of wood, to make it stand upright, and 
the children followed her. When they came 
back, their apples and nuts were gone ! This 
was a great affliction to little ones who had 
so few joys, and they cried bitterly. " It is 
that ugly Wolfgang," said Heinrich ; " when 
I am big enough, how I will beat him 1^ 
' Poor little Heinrich ! there was no Christ- 
child in his heart when he said that. The 
large tears ran down Gertrude's cheeks ; 
and now and then she sobbed for their lost 
Christmas-tree. But she said nothing ; only 
when they lay down to sleep that night, she 
asked, in a very melancholy tone, " Mother, 
why don't the Christ-child bring things to 
poor children ?" Her mother kissed her, and 
answered not a word. Her heart was very 
full, for she too thought it was very hard 
that the Christ-child carried so much to the 
rich, and left her little ones without anything 
on their Christmas-tree. The children no- 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 19 

ticed the looks of her eyes, and said to each 
other, " Mother's fits are coming on." 

The next morning, Gertrude smiled sweet- 
ly, as she slept ; and when she awoke, she 
said joyfully, "Oh, Heinrich, I have been in 
a beautiful place ! You and I were walking 
in a garden. A child with bright wings was 
up in a tree, and he threw red apples at us, 
and said, ' Be good, Heinrich, be good, Ger- 
trude ; and see what the Christ-child will do 
for vou.' Did you see his bright wings, Hein- 
rich ?" " No, I did not," he replied. " That 
is strange," said little Gertrude ; " for you 
were with me, and he spoke to both of us." 
" It was a dream," said Heinrich. " What 
is a dream ? " asked Gertrude. " It is 
somewhere where people go when they are 
asleep," answered Heinrich. His sister said 
she wished she could go there again, the red 
apples were so pretty. " I wish I could beat 
Wolfgang," said Heinrich. 

It was true that Wolfgang had stolen their 
apples and nuts ; but after he had eaten 
them he felt very badly about it. He had 
some good feelings in his heart, though no- 
body had ever taught him anything but evil. 
When he saw little Gertrude sitting mourn- 
fully on the door-step, next morning, he want- 
ed to say, " I wish you a merry Christmas ;" 



20 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

but the words choked him, for he knew he 
had spoiled her Christmas. He whistled, 
and took up a stone and threw it at a dog ; 
and nobody knew that Wolfgang's heart was 
troubled with some kindly and repentant 
feelings. He went forth into the streets with 
his old hat pulled over his eyes, and his hands 
stuck in his pockets. An orange woman, 
jostled by the crowd, had her basket knock- 
ed off her head. Wolfgang darted among 
the scattered oranges, and under pretence 
of helping to pick them up, he filled his 
pockets and ran home. " Here, Gertrude," 
said he, " here are some oranges for you. 1 
am sorry you lost all your nuts and apples." 
The little girl's eyes sparkled at sight of the 
golden fruit. " Did the Christ-child give 
them to you ?" she asked. Wolfgang felt a 
twinge at his heart ; but he only whistled, 
and told her to call her brother. Heinrich 
had kept out of sight, because he wanted to 
beat Wolfgang, and was afraid to do it. 
But when Gertrude showed the oranges, and 
said he was sorry they had lost their nuts 
and apples, he ran out with boyish eagerness 
to ask where the oranges came from. " An 
old woman spilled them in the street, and I 
picked them up and run," said Wolfgang, 
" Oh, then the Christ-child did not give them 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN-. 25 

mean by saying she has one of her fits ? " 
said the gentleman. "I don't know what 
fits are," repUed the boy. " Old dame Turk- 
heim says mother has crazy fits." 

The gentleman followed the children into 
the room, where stood two broken chairs, 
and a rickety table, with a battered porrin- 
ger, a mug without a handle, and a few po- 
tatoe skins. On the bed of rags lay a wo- 
man, whose fair pale countenance still gave 
indication of early beauty. Her ej es were 
open, but had a strange look, like one who 
walks in sleep. She took no notice of any- 
thing, and made no answer when spoken to. 
The stranger sighed deeply, as he looked 
round the miserable apartment. All, but the 
wretchedly poor, were rejoicing with Christ- 
mas presents, before a blazing fire. But 
these little hardy children were blue with 
the cold, and a few scattered boughs, some 
still tied to the broken chair, were all they 
had for Christmas. " Where is your father ?" 
said he. ^ " I don't know, sir," replied Hein- 
rich : " he has not been home these two days." 
" Is he kind to you ? " " When he is sober, 
he is very kind," said Heinrich. " If I take 
your mother along with me, would you like 
to go and have a good Christmas dinner ? 
You shall all come back whenever mother 



26 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

wishes.'- " Oh, please let us go," said Ger- 
trude : " I saw the Christ-child in a garden, 
and he spoke to us just like you." 

A sl,'igh was soon brought to the door, 
and thn unconscious mother and her chil- 
dren Vvcre lifted in, and covered warmly 
with baflalo skins. Wolfgang was again 
urged to go, but he answered very gruffly, 
that he had rather stay where he w^as. 

Heinrich and Gertrude w'ere delighted 
beyond measure. It was the first ride they 
ever had. The multitude of happy-looking 
children in the street, the merry bells, and 
their rapid motion through the clear pure 
air, made them very glad. At last they 
came to a place which the gentleman told 
them was his home. Two large houses 
stood near each other, and around them 
were several smaller ones, with manv barns 
and outhouses. A wide circular space 
around the large houses was laid out in gar- 
den walks, with many arches and arbours. 
Snow covered the garden with a pure white 
robe, and lay on the evergreen trees like a 
mantle of sw- airs dow^n. The principal gate 
of entrance rose in a pointed arch, sur 
mounted by a Cross, w^-eathed with a vine, 
from which some crimson leaves still flutter- 
ed. A group of boys were building a snow 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN, 27 

man in one of the walks, and others were 
playing at bat and ball. From one of the 
houses came the sound of music, and of hap- 
py children's voices. The ride, the invigor- 
ating air, and the pleasant sounds, seemed 
to rouse the mother from her lethargy. She 
looked round bewildered, as if wondering 
where she was. The gentleman led them 
in, and a multitude of little folks flocked 
around them. " Here, my children," said 
he, " I have brought some new comrades, to 
help you play and work." They all began 
to jump and caper. ^ A blind man sat by the 
fire-side, with a flute in his hand. He war- 
bled the first notes of a joyful tune, and the 
children, of their own accord, took hold of 
each others' hands, and formed a circle 
round the new comers, singing, 

Welcome, children, welcome here, 
Where perfect love has cast out fear ! 
Here we work the live-long day. 
And that makes us enjoy our play. 
Welcome, little children dear. 
For the Christ-child brought you here. 

There was a large evergreen tree in the 
middle of the table, with gay ribbons in the 
branches, and among the topmost boughs 
nestled the image of an angel-child, with 
large mild eyes, and shining wings. The 



28 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

children came running with little bags and 
baskets and books. " See," said they, " see 
what the Christ-child brought us last night ! 
Did he bring you anything ? " " He brought 
us some nuts and apples," said Heinrich, 
" but an ugly boy named Wolfgang stole them 
all. I wish I could beat him." Then spoke 
little Hans, the son of the blind flute-player : 
" Oh," said he, " that would only make Wolf- 
gang want to beat you. The Christ-child 
never beats anybody. If one strikes him, 
he gives him a kiss, and then he wants to 
strike no more." " Oh no," exclaimed many 
voices, " the Christ-child never beats any 
one. The Christ-child loves every one, and 
every one loves him." " But," said Hans, 
" these little friends have had no Christmas- 
tree, and we will give them some of our 
presents." Then all were eager to bring 
something. One brought a picture-book, 
and another a basket ; and a little chubby 
girl came with an apron full of red apples 
to fill the basket. Heinrich and Gertrude 
did not know what to make of all this. 
They never had such joy in their lives. 
Gertrude looked at the round red apples, 
and then at the angel-image in the tree ; and 
she said, " Why don't the Christ-child speak 
to me ? and say ' Be good, Gertrude — be 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 29 

good, Heinrich; " " The Christ-child can't 
speak, can he, father ?*' said the children, ad- 
dressing the gentleman, who had brought 
the poor little ones from their cold dismal 
home, into fire-warmth and gladness. " Yes, 
my children," he replied, " he speaks inside 
yom^ hearts ; and he says ever, Be good ; 
love one another." 

They had a happy time there, at the 
Father-House and the Mother-House, that 
merry Christmas day ! I wish all the poor 
children were brought from all the dark 
holes of the world into such a pleasant home. 
The wife of the gentleman had a beaming 
face and very friendly eyes. She took lit- 
tle Gertrude and Heinrich by the hand, and 
calling two or three of the older children to 
help her, she led them to the bathing rooms, 
and washed them, and combed their hair, 
and dresssed them in cheap, but very neat 
clothes. When little Gertrude came out of 
the bath, the water made her hair twist into 
curls, and the golden ringlets fell all round 
her innocent face. She looked first at her* 
self, and then at Heinrich in his new gar- 
ments, and then she clapped her little hands 
and laughed. When they went back to the 
large room, she stroked her clean apron 
with great satisfaction, and Heinrich kept 



30 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

thrusting out his feet to look at his new 
shoes. Never were two children so happy. 
The poor mother had some nourishing food 
prepared for her, and was persuaded to take 
a bath, and dress herself in clean garments. 
It was very affecting to see her gaze upon 
her children. She had never seen them so 
happy before, and therefore she never knew 
how beautiful they were. Then came the 
remembrance of their drunken father, and 
their own miserable dwelling ; and while 
her mouth was smiling, her eyes were swim- 
ming with tears. 

The children all sung a hymn together, 
before they went to rest ; and all kissed the 
two kind people, whom they called Father 
and Mother. As they parted off to their 
different rooms, sweet little voices were 
heard singing to each other, " Good night, 
good night." They all slept like dormice, 
until the bell woke them in the morning. 
Then they took a bath, and sang a hymn to- 
gether. After breakfast, every one went to 
work, as busy as bees. Even the smallest 
child had something to do. At the end of 
two hours, they all had a run in the air, and 
came back to work till dinner time. " We 
like to work, about as well as to play," said 
Hans ; " for you see our work is play. Each 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 31 

uoy does what he can do best, and he hkes 
to do it. 1 like to weave baskets ; and that 
boy there Hkes to cut images in wood ; and 
that Httle girl knits famous caps. We choose 
some boy to carry these things to Hamburg 
to sell ; and each of us likes to see how much 
we can earn." " Who do you earn the money 
for?" asked Heinrich : " is it for yourself ? " 
" Not for ourselves, but for each other," re- 
plied Hans : " but you see that is for our- 
selves. If we can buy trees and grafts for 
our orchard, we all have more fruit ; if we 
can buy bushes and seeds for our garden, 
we all have more flowers ; if we can add to 
our library, we all have more pleasant books 
to read. We all give a portion of what we 
earn for our food and clothes, and a portion 
to the poor ; and the remainder each gives 
as he pleases. One gives his toward buying 
some more books for the library ; another 
toward maps for the school ; another to- 
ward building an arbour, or a lattice for 
grapes ; another to buy prints for our pic- 
ture-room. We have bought two flutes and 
a clarionet, and a bass viol ; and we hope 
we shall be able to buy a piano, some time 
or other. I put six cents a week into the 
piano treasury. Oh, it is a great deal plea- 
santer to work for a thing, than it is to have 



32 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

it bought for you. When I hear the flute 
it pleases me to think I helped to earn that 
pleasure for all the others." 

" And this man that you call Father, what 
makes him bring poor children here?" ask- 
ed Heinrich. " Because he loves to do good 
and make everybody happy," answered 
Hans. " And if a boy won't work, does he 
flog him ? " " Oh no, indeed," said Hans ; 
" I have been here three years, and I never 
saw a whip, or heard a cross word spoken. 
Sometimes, children are lazy at first ; but 
where they see everybody else working 
they want to work too ; and they soon be- 
g'n to feel uneasy, to be earning something 
toward the library, or the music-room, or 
the garden, or the play-ground." 

" What does the Father do to stop the 
children from running away?" 

" He makes them so happy they don't 
want to run away," said Hans. "I have 
heard him say, that when he came here, 
there were iron bars on the windows, and 
heavy bolts on the gates ; but he took then? 
all off. He says he don't want us held by 
any chains, but the chains of love. And we 
every one of us love Father and Mother so 
much, that we had rather cut ofl* a finger, 
than do anything to grieve them. They 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 33 

never scold at us, but if we do wrong, they 
seem very sad." 

All this sounded very strange to poor 
Heinrich, who had seen so much fighting 
and quarrelling. It made him happy to 
hear his mother say that the good gentle- 
man would try to persuade his father to 
leave off drinking, and come and live there 
too. It was several months before the 
drunkard could be persuaded to come. He 
thought it was all a trick to get work out ol 
him for nothing. But he was very lonesome, 
and he had not the heart to take his children 
away from a place where they seemed so 
happy. When the summer came, he went 
out often to see his family ; and when he 
looked at Heinrich with his wheelbarrow, 
weeding the garden, and Gertrude feeding 
the chickens, he could not help feeling thank- 
ful that they were removed from his dirty, 
stifled room in the city. One day his beau- 
tiful little daughter leaned on his knee, and 
looked up in his face with those large eyes, 
so plaintive and loving in their expression, 
and said, " Dear father, do come and stay 
with us always. It is so pleasant living 
here.'' The unhappy father caught her in 
his arms, and bursting into tears, said, " J 
will never get drunk again ; 1 will never 
3 



34 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

swear again ; I will be a good man, for your 
sake, my angel-child." He came next day 
to the Father-House, as it was called ; and 
he was so steady and industrious, that he 
soon became the head gardener. He had 
been so used to scolding and swearing, that 
he once or twice said what he ought not to 
have said. But little Gertrude blushed for 
him, and Heinrich said, " Please, father, don't 
speak so here. You know the good man 
don't like to hear us speak any but kind, 
and pleasant, and clean words." And he 
would answer, " I did wrong, my son ; but 
it was because I forgot." Thus did the lit- 
tle children take their father by the hand, 
and lead him to the angels. 

And where was Wolfgang all this time ? 
He was cursing, and swearing, and fighting. 
When the good Father went to Hamburgh, 
he several times tried to coax him to go 
back with him ; but he always answered 
gruffly that he would rather stay as he was. 
At last, he was detected in stealing, and sent 
to prison, where he was treated severely, 
and kept company with many boys worse 
than himself. He came out with a heart 
much harder than when he went in. When 
the good Hans, son of the blind flute-player, 
tried to persuade him to go to the Father- 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 35 

House, and be a better boy, he mocked at 
him, with his fingers on his nose, and then 
Ricked him. But there was a soft place, in 
his heart, after all. Wolfgang once had a 
httle twin sister, who died when she was 
about four years old. He loved that little 
sister more than he ever loved anything in 
the world. It chanced that Gertrude Lud- 
wig came to Hamburgh one day, with seve- 
ral other little girls, and the good Mother, 
to sell flowers. When Wolfgang saw her 
standing with a bouquet in her hand, singing 
" Come buy my flowers," his first thought 
was to snatch the bouqnet, and pull it to 
pieces. But then he remembered his little 
sister, and he thought Gertrude looked like 
her ; and he could not do it. He lingered 
round them, as long as they staid. He 
thought of the prison he had lately left, and 
he wondered whether it was as pleasant at 
the Father-House, as Hans had told him. 
Gertrude had in her hands a garland which 
she had broken. She smiled at Wolfgang, 
and throwing him one end of the garland, in 
play, she said, "Come, Wolfgang, let me 
lead you to the Father-House. We will 
make you so happy there !" The innocent 
little creature did not know she was a mis- 
sionary to the poor ; but when the rough 



36 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

boy gave her his hand, she jumped for glad- 
ness. She introduced him to the other chil- 
dren, as a new comrade, and they sung a 
welcome round him. 

For a day or two, Wolfgang behaved 
tolerably well ; but his evil habits were 
strong, and he soon began to be quarrel- 
some and mischievous. Heinrich was nurs- 
ing a few currant-bushes in his garden, with 
great care. The bad boy dug them up by 
the roots, and when Heinrich came to look 
at them, he laughed and mocked at him. 
Heinrich grew very red in the face, and be- 
gan to double up his fists. But, luckily, he 
remembered that the boys had been told to 
go to the Father-House and ask advice of 
their teacher, whenever they were in trou 
ble, or tempted to do anything wrong. 
Therefore, he did not say one word, but 
went straight to the Father, and told him 
the story. " You say you wanted to beat 
Wolfgang," replied the good man: "would 
that make him a better boy?" "No, sir," 
replied Heinrich ; for he knew that beating 
never made him better. " Do you want to 
punish him, or do you want to make him a 
better boy?" asked the teacher. Heinrich 
hesitated ; but finally answered, " I did want 
to have him punished ; but I ought to want 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 37 

to make him a better boy." "You have 
answered well," replied the Father. " I ad- 
vise you to treat Wolfgang more kindly 
than ever, and make no allusion to what he 
has done. Offer to help him make his gar- 
den ; and the next time you have fruit, or 
anything he particularly likes, give half your 
share to him. In the book I read to you, 
you know Jesus Christ says we must over- 
come evil with good. Let us try it with 
Wolfgang. The more evil he does to us, 
the more good will we do to him." 

Heinrich promised that he would, and he 
went away glad that he had not struck his 
provoking companion. The next day, he 
helped dig Wolfgang's garden, and gave 
him some plants from his own. The rude 
boy was at first rather surly and ungraci- 
ous, but his heart was touched ; and when 
Heinrich came to him at sunset, with a bas- 
ket full of berries, he could not help saying, 
" I am sorry I pulled up your currant-bushes. 
I only did it for fun. I will water them 
every day, and try to make them live." 
" Thank you," said Heinrich ; and the two 
boys chatted pleasantly together, among the 
flowers. When Heinrich saw the teacher, 
he ran to him, and whispered in his ear 
" Father, the evil is overcome with good ^ 



38 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

Wolfgang is sorry." A kiss and a smile 
were his reward ; and he went bounding 
off, with a heart full of love and joy. 

Wolfgang had formed very lazy habits, 
and he thought rich people were most to be 
envied because they could live without work. 
But the Father and Mother worked very in- 
dustriously, and they taught all the children 
that God made everything to be useful ; that 
he who did most for others was the noblest 
man ; and he who made others serve him in 
his laziness, was the meanest man. Thus 
the boys learned to think it honourable to 
labour. They worked and played alter- 
nately, and did both with their whole hearts. 
By degrees, Wolfgang caught the spirit, and 
began to like work as well as play. He 
was very fond of music, and soon became 
ambitious to contribute toward a piano for 
the concert room. The teacher saw that he 
had uncommon gifts for music. He advised 
him to contrive some way of earning extra 
money enough to buy a flute ; and the blind 
man ofl^ered to teach him to play upon it. I 
am glad Wolfgang will have a flute ; for the 
sweet sounds will teach far gentler lessons, 
than the cursing and swearing in that dark 
alley. They will talk to him of worship and 
of tenderness, till his whole soul will be filled 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 39 

with bird-warblings, and summer mooriMght, 
and love for every helpless thing. 

But habits of selfishness, once formed, are 
difficult to cure. Neither love nor music 
could make Wolfgang a good boy, without 
strong efforts. When he had been there a 
few weeks, he was one day detected in tak- 
ing a small coin from the Treasury for Poor 
Children. Each one of the household put 
something into that box every week, to pur-, 
chase books and clothing for those who came 
there destitute. Wolfgang had himself been 
clothed from that treasury ; yet something 
evil tempted him to steal from it. The chil- 
dren were all very indignant with him, and 
many wanted to have him turned away 
directly. But the Father said to them, 
" Wolfgang has done this wrong, because 
he formed bad habits when he was small, 
and had nobody to teach him better. If we 
turn him into the streets, who will love him 
and pray for him 1 who will help him to 
grow good ? " One little boy said, " Ah, we 
have all done so many wrong things, because 
we had nobody to teach us better." An- 
other said, " Wolfgang lived nine years 
among bad people, and he has been here but 
a few weeks. We must give him time." 
Then a Uttle girl burst into tears, and said 



40 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

" Wolfgang's mother is dead. Let us a I 
help him to be good." The teacher, deeply 
moved, said, " Whoever thinks as Mary does, 
may hold up the right hand." Every hand 
was raised. When the culprit saw this, he 
held down his head, and the big tears drop- 
ped on his feet. The good Mother said, 
" Let us sing together." And they sang a 
plaintive little song, that told how the mother 
loves her child, and wishes him to be good 
and happy. Every verse ended with the 
mournful chorus, 

" But my mother died 
A long-, long time ago." 

The poor boy could not bear this. He re- 
membered how his mother used to kiss him ; 
he remembered when she lay dead and could 
speak to him no more. He threw himself 
on the bench, and sobbed violently. The 
other children began to weep with him. 
The teacher said, " This is too sad. Let us 
sing a cheerful hymn together, and then we 
will go and play in the open air." But the 
good Mother took Wolfgang by the hand, 
and kissed him, and led him to hei own 
room, where they talked together, till the 
stars were in the sky. 

After that, Wolfgang was much changed 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 41 

He became more gentle and obliging ; he 
seldom spoke an improper word, and seem- 
ed perfectly honest. But his evil propensi- 
ties were not quite conquered. He thought 
that blessed night that he should never want 
to do wrong again. But poor Wolfgang 
will sin and suffer more, before his soul be- 
comes quite clean. 

Two days before Christmas, he was cho- 
sen by the children to go to Hamburgh, to 
sell their baskets. Gertrude gave him par- 
ticular instructions about a basket, which 
she had woven with great care. " Is it not 
pretty," said she, turning it round with de- 
light : " I want it to sell well ; for I mean to 
give every penny to the Christ-child, for 
poor children, who have no Christmas-tree." 
Wolfgang promised, and went away full of 
happiness and good resolutions. But in 
Hamburgh he met some of his old wicked 
associates. They teased him to give them 
a treat of cake and gin. When he refused, 
they called him stingy. When he told them 
the money was not his, they laughed at him, 
and asked him whether he hadn't done work 
enough out there, to have a little money to 
spend. Wolfgang was weak enough to fee] 
ashamed when they made fun of him. After 
a while, he let them tease away the basket- 

d 



42 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

money, and spend it for gin, and cake, 
and marbles. He thought to himself that 
he would earn enough to make it up ; but 
still he felt very unhappy. He tried to play 
with the boys ; but an uneasy feeling trou- 
bled him all the time, and made his heart 
rery heavy. The boys told him that he 
nad lost all his spirit by living out there at 
the Father-House, and that he must drink 
gin and be merry. At first he refused ; but 
they made fun of him, till he raised the hate- 
ful liquor to his mouth. He drank but one 
swallow, and set the mug down hastily. 
He remembered that he had promised the 
good Mother, that night when they sat to- 
gether alone in the starlight, that he would 
never again taste of intoxicating liquor, and 
never steal again. When the boys saw that 
he did not drmk, as he used to do, they rais- 
ed a great shout, and mocked at him with 
their fingers, and cried, " Ah, you coward ! 
you are afraid of the old tyrant at the Father- 
House!" *' Say that again, if you dare!" 
shouted Wolfgang, doublmg up his fist. " He 
is not a tyrant. He is a dear good father to 
all of us. He has been very kind to me. 
And I — and I — " He could not finish; but 
choking with emotion, he turned and ran 
away. 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 43 

He took the road homeward ; but after 
running a little way, he began to think that 
he had been too wicked to go back. " It is 
the first time they have sent me to Ham- 
burgh," thought he, " and I have stolen their 
money, and drank gin, and doubled up my 
fist to fight. Poor little Gertrude ! she was 
so ready to trust me ; and now I am afraid 
she will cry about her pretty basket for the 
Christ-child. Oh, dear ! I expected to have 
such a happy Christmas ; and I could sing 
the tenor so well for the Christmas-hymn ; 
and now I cannot go back — I cannot go 
back." He sat down on a rock, and cried 
a long time. Then he crept into a shed and 
slept under a heap of straw. The next 
morning, he skulked about, dreading to go 
to his old haunts, and not daring to go home. 
At last, the evening drew near ; and it was 
Christmas Eve. In a few hours, the Christ- 
mas-hymn would be sounding at the Father- 
House, and the happy children would be 
gathering around the Christmas-tree. Again 
Wolfgang wept aloud ; but this time some- 
thing whispered in his heart, " Go back, poor 
erring child. They will forgive thee. Go, 
and sin no more." 

The winter air blew keen and strong, but 
Wolfgang faced it bravely. He was m a 



44 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

sad and thoughtful state of mind, and there- 
fore the wind among the trees spoke mourn- 
fully, and the evening star seemed to look 
into the very depths of his soul. At last, he 
came in sight of the Father-House. The 
light of a blazing fire v^as streaming through 
the shutters, and the sound of the blind man's 
flute flowed through the evening air, like an 
angel's voice. Wolfgang spied a half-open 
shutter, and he crept timidly up, and peeped 
in, as well as he could through the frosty 
window-pane. The children were all around 
the flute-player, and two of the very little 
ones were dancing. The teacher stood 
among them, and played with castanets. 
Presently, the Mother came in. He could 
not hear what she said, but they all began 
to jump and caper, and he guessed she had 
called them to come and look at their Christ- 
mas-tree. 

He guessed right. They all ran after the 
good Mother ; and Gertrude, as she passed 
the window, saw a face peeping in. She 
started at first, but immediately arose the joy- 
ous cry, " Wolfgang is come ! Wolfgang is 
at the window !" " He has done very wrong 
to stay so long in the city, and give us so 
much uneasiness," said the teacher ; " but 
we will welcome him home. Let Gertrude 



ANC THE POOR CHILDREN. 45 

go out and invite him in ; for she first led 
him to the Father-House." The Httle girl 
went out, much satisfied with her mission 
She did not come back soon, and Heinrich 
w^as sent for her. Presently they returned, 
and Gertrude said, " Wolfgang will not come 
in. He says he wants to see the Mother. 
"When I asked him about my basket, he did 
nothing but cry." The Mother immediately 
went out, saying, " Wait a little for the 
Christmas-tree, my children. I will bring 
Wolfgang in." When the repentant child 
saw his kind friend coming toward him, he 
dropped on his knees trembUng and weep- 
ing, and said, " Oh, mother, I have spent all 
their money, and drank gin, and doubled up 
my fist to fight ; and I dare not go in to 
hear them sing the Christmas-hymn." ^' This 
is sad, indeed, my child," replied the Mother; 
"but you repent, and repentance always 
brings peace. Come in, and tell the whole 
story frankly. As they all sent baskets by 
you, they all have a right to know what you 
have done with the money." " 1 cannot. I 
cannot," said Wolfgang: "they will never 
forgive me. They have already forgiven 
so much." " And therefore can forgive 
more," said the Mother : " Come with me." 
She put his arm within hers, and led him in. 



46 THE CHRIST-CHILD 

But he slunk behind her, abashed, and stood 
gazing on the floor, until she whispered in 
his ear, " My son, is it not right to confess 
■what you have done?" 

Then, with many tears, Wolfgang told 
how he went away with good resolutions, 
how some boys, as bad as he used to be, 
tempted him, and how he had been weak 
enough to yield, though he knew it was 
wrong. " I have given them all your money," 
said he ; " but I will not buy my flute, and I 
will work every minute of my play hours, 
till I earn enough to pay you." 

When he had finished his story, the Father 
said, " Well, my children, what ought to be 
done to Wolfgang ? " There was silence for 
a moment. Then little Gertrude said, " The 
Christ-child would forgive him." " And shall 
we forgive him ?" asked the Mother. They 
all held up their hands. " And now," said 
the Father, " we will go to the Christmas- 
tree, and sing the Christmas-hymn. Come, 
Wolfgang, we are glad to have your voice 
to-night." The once rude boy was now 
gentle as a lamb. He covered his face with 
his hands, and said, " Oh, father, I am not 
worthy to sing the Christmas-hymn." " Then 
sing it, that you may become worthy, my 
son," replied the good teacher. 



AND THE POOR CHILDREN. 41 

The Mother opened the wide doors of the 
dining-room, and there stood the Christmas- 
tree in a blaze of hght, with ribbons and 
wreaths, and the smihng angel-image. Some 
of the children nestled close to the Mother's 
side, and privately put little presents in her 
hand, and said, " Please, mother, hang these 
on the tree for Wolfgang." And the Mother 
smiled and blessed them for their love. 

When they sang the Christmas-hymn that 
night, Wolfgang's clear voice sounded dis- 
tinct and strong ; but when they came to the 
verse that told how Jesus forgave all injury, 
and ever returned good for evil, his voice 
quivered, and went silent. 

When they were about to part for the 
night, the Father said, "Now, my children, 
1 have something to propose to you. In a 
few days, we must send some more baskets 
to Hamburgh. Let us send them by Wolf- 
gang, that he may see we trust him entirely. 
He must learn to meet temptation and resist 
it." " Oh, yes, we will trust him ! we will 
trust him !" shouted many voices. 

The offender dropped on his knees ; but 
the teacher said, " Not to me, my child ; not 
to me. Kneel before your Father in Hea- 
ven, who maketh his sun to shine alike on 
the evil and on the good." He kissed his 



48 THE CHRIST-CHILD. 

forehead, and the Mother led him to a room 
apart. There she laid his head on her bo- 
som, and talked to him affectionately of his 
own mother, and of his Httle sister that died. 
She told him that through temptation and 
struggle, bad men become good, and good 
men become angels. She read to him some 
of the blessed words of Jesus ; and they 
knelt down and prayed together for forgive- 
ness and strength. In those sacred hours 
of love and prayer, the angels came into his 
heart, and he never after drove them away. 
Thus did the spirit of Love lead those poor 
children out of that dark and dirty lane, and 
those dark and evil passions, into sunlight 
and peace. 



^ ^w'^ 



i-^' 




THE NEW-YORK BOY^S SONG 



TO CROTON WATER, 



H, blessed be the Croton ! 
It floweth everywhere — 
It sprinkles o'er the dusty ground, 
It cooleth all the air. 



It poureth by the wayside, 
A constant stream of joy, 

To every little radish girl, 
And chimney-sweeping boy. 

Poor little ragged children, 

Who sleep in wretched places, 

Come out for Croton water, 
To wash their dirty faces. 
e 4 



50 THE NEW-YORK BOY's SONG 

And if they find a big tub full, 
They shout aloud with glee, 

And all unite to freight a chip. 
And send it out to sea. 

To the ever-running hydrant 

The dogs delight to go, 
To bathe themselves, and wet their 
tongues. 

In the silver water-flow. 

The thirsty horse, he knoweth well 
Where the Croton poureth down, 

And thinks his fare is much improved 
In the hot and dusty town. 

And many a drunkard has forgot 

To seek the fiery cup ; 
For everywhere, before his face, 

Sweet water leapeth up. 

Then blessings on the Croton ! 

It flows for man and beast. 
And gives its wealth out freely. 

To the greatest and the least. 



TO CROTON WATER. 51 

We city boys take great delight 
To watch its bubbling play, 

To make it rush up in the air, 
Or whirl around in spray. 

It is good sport to guide a hose 

Against the window-pane, 
Or dash it through the dusty trees. 

Like driving summer rain. 

Oh, blessed be the Croton ! 

It gives us endless fun. 
To make it jump and splash about, 

And sparkle in the sun. 

And the Fountains in their beauty, 

It glads our hearts to see — 
Ever springing up to heaven, 

So gracefully and free. 

Fast fall their sparkling diamonds, 
Beneath the sun's bright glance. 

And like attendant fairies, 

The shim'ring rainbows dance. 

White Ctud pure their feathery foam, 
Under the moon's mild ray. 



52 THE NEW-YORK BOy's SONG. 

While twinkling stars look brightly down 
Upon their ceaseless play. 

And all about the crowded town, 
In garden, shop, or bower. 

Neat little fountains scatter round 
A small refreshing shower. 

Perhaps some dolphin spouts it forth 
To sprinkle flower or grass, 

Or marble boy, with dripping urn, 
Salutes you as you pass. 

Then blessings on the Croton ! 

May it diminish never — 
For its glorious beauty 

Is a joy forever. 



Note. — In former years, water was very scarce and very bad, 
in some parts of the city of New-York. But now an abun- 
dance of delicious water is brought from the river Croton, 
forty miles off It runs under-ground, in big iron pipes. 
In every street, are conductors, called hydrants, from which 
small streams flow continually. 



MANIKINS; 



OE, LITTLE MEN, 




r 



N 1741, one of the most 
remarkable dwarfs ever 
seen was born in Lorraine 
county, France. His parents 
were absolutely frightened at 
his extreme smallness. His 
head was no bigger than a 
large nut, and his cry was as feeble as the 
squeak of a mouse. His mouth was so small 
that they were at a loss how to feed him ; 
but by means of a very small silver tube, 
they at last contrived to give him a drop or 
two of luke-warm milk at a time. He was 
carried to church in one of his mother's 
wooden shoes, to be baptized. No one 
thought it possible that he could hve ; but 
he did live, and grew stronger every day. 
His size, however, increased but little. He 



54 MANIKINS ; OR, 

was never more than twenty-six inches high, 
and weighed fifteen pounds. His hands and 
feet were like those of a doll, and his little 
round fresh face was no bigger than an 
apple. He was a very lively and animated 
child, and before he was a year old, could 
walk very well. His mother did not dare 
to let him run about the house, for fear he 
would get lost, or run over ; but his father 
arranged a line of boards for him, along 
which he would run like a squirrel. 

He was exceedingly slow in learning to 
speak. At six years old, he could not arti- 
culate a single word. His parents were 
poor and very ignorant, and they thought 
that witches, or wicked fairies, had made 
him silent, and prevented him from growing. 
He was exceedmgly sweet-tempered, affec- 
tionate, and generous. He was passionate- 
ly attached to his family, and loved every 
little bird and lamb. As soon as he could 
walk, he was eager to be up early in the 
morning, that he might go into the lower 
court, With his little basket full of grain for 
the chickens. He would ask for bread con- 
tinually, that he might crumble it up for the 
ducks and birds. If the greedy turkeys 
came after it, he would chase them away 
with a stick, though they were bigger than 



LITTLE MEN. 55 

ne was. An old goose and a sheep, on his 
father's farm, became so much attached to 
the kind httle fellow, that they would follow 
him everywhere. The sheep would allow 
him to climb upon her back, and sit there by 
the hour together. If his mother allowed 
him to go to one of the neighbours to play, 
the goose would follow him, and watch every 
step with as much care, as if she were con- 
scious that such a little person was exposed 
to unusual dangers. She would never allow 
a strange dog to come near him ; and even 
if she saw one at a distance, she would 
stretch out her long neck, with hisses, to 
drive him away. 

As he grew older, his parents allowed him 
to run about in the fields with his sheep and 
goose. Breathing the fresh air continually, 
and accustomed to constant exercise, his lit- 
tle face was blooming as a rose, and his 
well-formed limbs were remarkable for pli- 
ancy and gracefulness. People came from 
far and near to look at him ; and they never 
could sufficiently admire his pretty little 
figure, and lively motions. 

At last, his fame reached the ears of Stan- 
islaus the Benevolent, then Duke of Lor- 
raine, and afterward King of Poland. This 
prince heard such marvellous accounts of 



56 manikins; or, 

the dwarf, that he sent to have him brought 
to court. His father packed him away in a 
rush basket, and covered him with leaves, 
as he would a rabbit. When he presented 
himself at court, the duke said, in a disap- 
pointed tone, " Why have you not brought 
your famous little son?" The villager took 
off the napkin that covered his basket, and 
little Nicholas immediately popped out his 
head, and jumped on the floor. The duke 
was so delighted with this remarkable child, 
that he wanted to keep him always. He 
found it hard to coax his father to part with 
him, but his very liberal offers at last induc- 
ed him to consent. Thinking the prince 
would do more for the boy than he could, he 
left him at court, and went homeward with 
many tears. 

All the lords and ladies caressed little 
Nicholas exceedingly, and overloaded him 
with sweetmeats and playthings. But the 
poor little fellow was very homesick. The 
richly dressed ladies did not seem like his own 
fond mother ; and he liked a thousand times 
better to ride on the back of his sheep, than to 
be shut up in the Duke's grand carriage. 
He would not run, sleep, or eat. He be- 
came sulky, and took no interest in anything 
He would not try to say a word, except 



LITTLE MEN. 57 

"mamma, mamma;" and this he repeated, 
in a most mournful tone, through the whole 
day, and the long, long night. This contin- 
ual unhappiness, with want of food and sleep, 
made him very ill, and they feared he would 
die. 

He was too weak to be carried home, and 
the prince sent a messenger for his mother. 
The moment the poor child heard her well- 
known voice, his eyes sparkled, and his little 
pale cheeks flushed with joy. Feeble as he 
was, he sprang out of bed, and rushed into 
her arms. He could not be persuaded to 
leave her for a moment, and would sleep no- 
where but on her lap. Under her affection- 
ate care, he soon became strong and lively 
as ever. 

He had never been to school, and his utter- 
ance was extremely imperfect. The prince 
offered him all kinds of playthings, if he 
would learn to read. He tried to do as they 
wished, but he could never remember any- 
thing except the vowels. He called all the 
consonants B ; and he took such a fancy to 
that sound, that he used it to ask for almost 
everything he wanted. For this reason, he 
was generally called Be-Be, though his real 
name was Nicholas Ferry. 

It was evidently of no use to trouble his 



58 



litt/e brain with learning ; for it was not big 
enough to hold it. In dancing, he succeed- 
ed much better. He soon became remark- 
able for the swiftness of his movements, and 
for all manner of graceful gambols. They 
taught him to handle a little gun very dex- 
terously ; and large companies often assem- 
bled at the castle, to see the manikin, in gre- 
nadier's uniform, jumping, vaulting, and fenc- 
ing, upon a large table. 

One day, the duke made a grand dinner, 
and invited many distinguished lords and 
ladies. The principal ornament of the table 
was a large pie, in the shape of a citadel, 
with towers, turrets, ramparts, and sugar 
artillery. When the first course was remov- 
ed from the table, a band of musicians struck 
up a lively tune. Up jumped the pie-crust, 
and out started little Nicholas, holding a 
brace of the smallest pistols that ever were 
seen, and flourishing a little sabre over his 
head. The guests, being entirely unprepar- 
ed for his appearance, were startled at first, 
but they soon enjoyed his frolics highly. 
When the dessert came on, he very gravely 
returned to stand sentinel at the pie, where 
he was pelted with sugar-plums, till they 
were piled up as high as his shoulders. 

This adventure of the pie made Be-Be 



LITTLE MEN. 59 

more famous than ever. Painters took his 
likeness, and poets made verses about him. 
Other princes envied the duke the possession 
of such a curiosity, and privately offered 
large sums of money to any one who would 
decoy him away. Sometimes the servants 
of visiters, under the pretence of play, would 
put him in their pockets ; or the sentinel, as 
he ran along the gallery, would cover him 
with his cloak ; or the postillions would coax 
him to creep into their great boots, which 
they would tie together, and sHng over their 
shoulders. He would let them play with 
him a little in this way, but as soon as he 
suspected something more serious than fun, 
he would utter such shrill cries, that they 
were glad to release him. 

Stanislaus was, however, afraid that he 
would be stolen, sooner or later. He there- 
fore ordered a number of pages to follow 
him wherever he went. Be-Be did not like 
this. He had been so much accustomed to 
run about the fields with his goose, that it 
annoyed him not to be able to stir a step 
without a sentinel at his side. He became 
melancholy, and ill. The duke, in order to 
divert his mind, ordered a little castle to be 
built for him on wheels. It contained a par- 
ouYf sleeping chamber, dining hall, and even 



60 MANIKINS ; OR, 

a little miniature garden, with flowers, trees, 
and fountains. The chairs, tables, beds, and 
time-pieces, were all adapted to his size. A 
small billiard-table, and a great variety of 
games, were prepared for him. A collec- 
tion of animals, extremely small of their kind, 
were arranged in this pretty little hermitage. 
Sparrows, linnets, and wrens, hopped about 
in cages of ivory and silver ; a little grey- 
hound, not much bigger than a squirrel, ran 
from one room to another ; and the Empress 
of Russia sent a pair of snow-white turtle 
doves, no larger than the smallest species 
of sparrows. 

A company of well-behaved Httle children 
was likewise formed for his amusement, and 
called the Joyful Band. These aifectionate 
attentions made Be-Be very glad, and he 
chattered thanks very earnestly, in his queer 
little language. It was funny to see him re- 
ceive his small guests at dinner, and imitate 
the manners of a great man. He was ex- 
tremely affectionate and gay, but he had 
strict ideas of politeness and good order. 
One day, a member of his little band became 
too noisy in his play, and awakened the 
duke, who was sleeping in his arm-chair 
near by. Be-Be insisted that he should do 
penance for his fault, by sitting on a foot- 



LITTLE MEN. 61 

stool at the door of his little palace, and eat- 
ing his dinner alone. 

On one occasion, a famous dwarf came 
from Polish Russia to visit him. His name 
was Count Boruwlaski. He measured just 
eight inches when he was born, and at thir- 
ty years old was only thirty-nine inches 
high. His mother was very poor, and had 
a large family of children. She gave him 
to the Countess Humiecka, with whom he 
travelled into various parts of Europe. In 
Turkey, he was admitted into the seraglio, 
and the women who live secluded there 
were as much amused with him as with a 
living doll. Everybody petted and caress- 
ed him, and he was universally called Jou- 
jou, the French word for plaything. 

In Austria, he visited the empress, Maria 
Theresa. Her daughter, Maria Antoinette, 
afterward the unfortunate queen of France, 
was then only six years old. The empress 
drew a ring from her hand, and placed it 
on the miniken finger of Joujou. At Paris, 
he was received with great attention. A 
wealthy gentleman there gave him a dinner, 
at which all the plates, knives and fox'ks, and 
even the eatables, were adapted to his size. 
In the course of his travels, he visited the 
court of Stanislaus, and was introduced to 



62 MANIKINS ; OR, 

Be-Be. In the latter part of his Ufe, he vis- 
ited Lapland and Nova Zembla, where the 
people crowded to see him night and day, 
so that he could get no chance to sleep. 
The savages devoutly thanked the sun for 
showing them such a little man ; and he to 
thank them played them tunes on his small 
guitar. After many wanderings, he settled 
in England, and lived to be an old man. 

Be-Be received Joujou with his customary 
politeness, and made his visit as pleasant as 
possible. It must have been a funny sight 
to see these little fairy men doing the hon- 
ours to each other. 

Be-Be was distinguished for neatness as 
well as courtesy. One day, when he was 
playing ball, he broke a glass lamp, and 
spilled the oil on his clothes. He tried to 
wipe it off, and seeing the spot spread, he 
begged earnestly for a pair of scissors, to 
cut it out. Being refused, he sobbed out, 
" Oh, how wretched I am ! What will my 
good friend say, when he sees me so dirty ? '' 

He was extremely generous. He had a 
great many jewels and beautiful playthings 
given him, but almost always gave them 
away, to the children who visited him. He 
liked nothing so well as a purse full of small 
bright money ; for he delighted to walk on 



LITTLE MEN. 63 

the balcony, and throw it to poor children, 
who came there to catch it. Sometimes, he 
would roll up a crown in a paper with his 
sixpences, and throwing it to the raggedest lit- 
tle beggar, would cry out, " Catch it quick ! 
it is for you." 

Whenever he had a gold piece given 
him, he put it in a box and locked it up, to 
send to his native village, for his dear bro- 
ther Louis ; who, by his generosity, became 
one of the richest farmers in the country. 

Be-Be was mischievous sometimes, and 
hked to trouble the pages, who were order- 
ed to keep watch over him. One day, he 
hid himself in the bottom of the kennel with 
his greyhound ; and there the little rogue 
remained eating and drinking with his play- 
fellow the dog, all day and all night. The 
page was scolded severely, and threatened 
with dismissal. Be-Be, hearing him weep, 
sprang out of his hiding-place, and embrac- 
ing the knees of King Stanislaus, entreated 
him to forgive the page, for he only was to 
blame. 

He was always remarkable for the loving 
disposition, which characterized his infancy. 
Among the boys who visited him, was a lit- 
tle fellow about seven years old, named 
Zizi. Be-Be was so fond of him, that he 



64 MANIKINS ; OR, 

wanted to give him everything. He made 
him a present of his httle gold watch, not 
bigger than a ten cent piece, containing his 
miniature set with gems. This watch was 
marked with only five hours, because the 
little man could never learn to count higher 
than five. 

His favourite Zizi died of small-pox, after 
a very short illness. They were afraid to 
tell Be-Be, for fear his tender little heart 
would break with grief. Every hour in the 
day he would ask, " Where is Zizi ? Why 
donH Tata come?" He and Zizi had often 
talked together about the goose and the 
sheep that he loved so well ; and at last, he 
took it into his head that Zizi had gone to 
his native village, to bring the goose and 
the sheep. Every day, he laid aside half of 
his cake, fruit, and playthings, for his belov- 
ed comrade ; and to the day of his death, 
he always expected to see Zizi come back 
with his old friends, the goose and the sheep. 

When King Stanislaus went to Versailles, 
to visit his daughter, he took Be-Be with 
him. There, as elsewhere, he was a great 
favourite. The ladies caressed him greatly, 
and always wanted to have him in their 
arms ; but if they attempted to carry 
him out of sight of the king, he would call 




^^^s^'- 



littl:^men. 65 

out, " My good friend, the lady will carry 
me away in her pocket!" and he would 
struggle, till they released him, and let him 
run back to Stanislaus. 

The poor dwarf never seemed like him- 
self after he returned from his journey. He 
became very sad, wanted to be alone, and 
wept much. Sometimes he would sit for 
two whole days, without even changing his 
position. He lost his appetite entirely. One 
lark was enough for two dingers ; and in a 
short time he could take nothing but a little 
weak lemonade, and burnt sugar. His-round, 
blooming face wrinkled very fast, and though 
not yet twenty-two, he looked like a very 
old man. He begged most earnestly to see 
the king before he died, but his benefactor 
was then absent at Nanl^, and they could 
not gratify his wishes. He repeated his 
name almost every minute ;\ and as he lay 
in his mother's lap, and raised tiis dying eyes 
to hers, his last words were, "Oh mother 
dear, I wish I could kiss once m*ore the hand 
of my good friend." 

When Stanislaus returned, he was deeply 
affected to find that his little favourite was 
dead. He caused his body to be embalmed, 
and buried with much ceremony. ^^ 

f 5 



\ 



ij6 MANIKINS ; OR, 

There was a famous English dwarf, nam 
ed Jeffery Hudson, born in 1619. When 
seven years old, he was only eighteen inches 
high ; and he grew no taller than this till he 
was thirty years old ; when he suddenly at- 
tained the height of three feet and nine inches. 
The Duke of Buckingham presented this 
dwarf to Henrietta Maria, queen of Charles 
the First. At her marriage feast, he was 
brought upon the table in a cold pie, from 
which he sprang forth at a given signal, to 
the great amusement of the queen and her 
guests. He did not bear the extreme indul- 
gence with which he was treated, so well as 
Be-be did. He became very petulant and 
tyrannical, and disposed to quarrel with 
every one who laughed at him. Being once 
provoked at the mirthfulness of a young gen- 
tleman, named Crofts, the foolish little fellow 
challenged him to fight. The young gen- 
tleman being much amused at the idea of 
Jefiery's fighting a duel, came armed with a 
squirt, instead of a pistol. This was merely 
intended for fun ; but the bad-tempered 
dwarf became so angry, that he insisted upon 
a real duel. They met on horseback, to 
equalize their height as much as possible, 
and at the first pistol-shot Mr. Crofts fell 
dead. Poor little Jeflfery was not wise 



LITTLE MEN. 67 

enough to know that this was much more 
like dogs or game-cocks, than hke men en- 
dowed with reason and conscience. In the 
time of Cromwell's revolution, he escaped 
to France, to follow the fortunes of Queen 
Henrietta. He met with a variety of adven- 
tures. He was taken prisoner by the Dun- 
kirkers, and at another time by a Turkish 
pirate. He returned to England, in Charles 
the Second's time, where he was imprisoned 
on suspicion of being employed in some po- 
litical intrigue. He died in prison at the 
age of sixty-three. 

Peter the Great, of Russia, had a passion 
for dwarfs. He had a very little man and 
a very Httle woman in his royal household ; 
and when they were married, he collected 
all the dwarfs throughout his vast empire, 
to form a wedding procession. They were 
ninety-three in number, and were paraded 
through the streets of St. Petersburgh, in 
the smallest possible carriages, drawn by the 
smallest of Shetland ponies. 



The most remarkable dwarf of modern 
times is Charles S. Stratton, called General 
Tom Thumb. He was born at Bridgeport, 



68 MANIKINS : OR, 

Connecticut, in 1832. He was a healthy, 
vigorous babe, and weighed nine pounds two 
ounces when he was born. At five months 
old, he weighed fifteen pounds ; but at that 
time, from some unknown cause, he ceased 
to grow ; and now, at the age of twelve 
years, he is a little miniature man, only two 
feet and one inch in height, and weighing 
but fifteen pounds and two ounces. His 
head is rather too large for his body, but his 
limbs are well proportioned, and he has the 
prettiest little feet and hands imaginable. 
He has been taught to perform a variety of 
exploits, and has been exhibited at nearly 
all the museums in the United States. He 
has a great variety of dresses, military, naval, 
&c. It is extremely droll to see him dress- 
ed up like Napoleon Bonaparte, and imitat- 
ing his attitudes and motions, which he does 
to perfection. 

Dwarfs, generally, have feeble voices. 
Tom Thumb's is weak and piping, like a 
very little child ; but he sings a variety of 
small songs in a very agreeable manner. 
His boots and gloves are about large enough 
for a good-sized doll, and his little canes 
would answer for a small monkey. He 
has a little carriage, about big enough for 
pussy-cat to ride in ; and into this a small 



LITTLE MEN. 



69 



dog is fastened, with a very complete little 
harness. He has a house, too, about three 
feet high, into which he walks to rest him- 
self, when he is tired of dancing a hornpipe 
for the amusement of spectators. He is a 
very lively child, and very winning in his 
manners. He makes a bow, and kisses his 
tiny hand, in the genteelest manner possible. 
He has now gone to Europe, where he is 
very much caressed. Queen Adelaide pre- 
sented him with a beautiful little gold watch, 
no bigger than a shilHng ; and Queen Vic- 
toria was so pleased with his performances, 
that she gave him a beautiful mother-of-pearl 
toy, set in gold, with flowers worked in en- 
amel, and adorned with precious stones. 




GEORGE AND HIS DOG 



EORGE had a large and noble dog 
With hair as soft as silk ; 
A few black spots upon his back, 
The rest as white as milk. 

And many a happy hour they had, 
In dull or shining weather ; 
For, in the house, or in the fields, 
They always were together. 

It was rare fun to see them race, 
Through fields of bright red clover. 

And jump across the running brooks, 
George and his good dog Rover. 



GEORGE AND HIS DOG. 71 

The faithful creature knew full well 
When master wished to ride ; 

And he would kneel down on the grass, 
While Georgy cHmbed his side. 

They both were playing in the field, 

When all at once they saw 
A little squirrel on a stump, 

With an acorn in his paw. 

Rover sent forth a loud bow-wow, 

And tried to start away ; 
He thought to scare the little beast 

Would be a noble play. 

But George cried out, " For shame ! for 
shame ! 

You are so big and strong. 
To worry that poor little thing 

Would be both mean and wrong." 

The dog still looked with eager eye, 
And George could plainly see, 

It was as much as he could do. 
To let the squirrel be. 

The timid creature would have feared 
The dog so bold and strong. 



72 GEORGE AND HIS DOG. 

But he seemed to know the little boy 
Would let him do no wrong. 

He peeped in George's smiling face, 

And trusting to his care, 
He kept his seat upon the stump, 

And ate his acorn there. 

He felt a spirit of pure love 

Around the gentle boy. 
As if good angels, hovering there. 

Watched over him in joy. 

And true it is, the angels oft 
Good little George have led ; 

They're with him in his happy play, 
They guard his little bed. 

They keep his heart so kind and true 
They make his eye so mild ; 

For dearly do the angels love 
A gentle little child. 




THE SQUIRREL 



AND HER LITTLE ONES 




BOY was once going home 
from school through the 
woods. It was very early 
in the spring time, and no- 
thing green was to be seen, 
save some moss on the edge 
of a little brook, which ran 
along over the stones, talking to itself As 
the boy went whistling along, with his satchel 
of books, and a small tin pail with his dinner, 
slung on a pole at his back, he saw by the 
new chips scattered about, that the wood- 
cutters had been at work there, since morn- 
ing. Looking round, he saw a large white 
oak tree lying on the ground. Thinking to 
make himself a whistle out of the green 
twigs, he set down his satchel and pail, and 
marched up to the tree. He soon discover 
g 



74 THE SaUIRREL 

ed a large knot-hole in the trunk ; and, boy 
like, he must needs peep into it. At first, he 
saw nothing but a little hairy bunch ; but 
presently something began to move, and he 
saw that he had found a squirrel's nest. 
Here was a treasure for a school-boy ! 
There were four little baby squirrels, their 
eyes not yet opened, curled up together on 
a nice warm bed of moss, in the old oak 
tree. He took them out, and put them in 
his tin pail, thinking to carry them home. 
But the boy had a very kind heart under his 
jacket ; and the kind heart began to say to 
him, that when the mother of the squirrels 
came home, she would be in great distress 
to find her babies gone. So he packed them 
all in the hole again, and hid himself in a 
bush, that he might see what the old squir- 
rel would do, when she came back and found 
her house knocked down. 

Before long, he saw^ a gray squirrel run- 
ning along the stone wall, with a nut in her 
mouth. She frisked down the wall, and 
over the ground, as swift as a bird ; for she 
was in a great hurry to see her children. 
But when she came to the tree, she dropped 
her nut, and looked round in astonishment. 
She went smelling all about, then she mount- 
ed the stump to take a survey of the coun- 



AND HER LITTLE ONES. 75 

try. There she stood a moment, on her 
hind legs, and snuffed the air, with a look of 
great wonder and distress. Whether her 
sense of smell was so acute, that she discov- 
ered her little ones near by, or whether she 
remembered the familiar landscape, and the 
bark of the tree she had climbed so often, 1 
know not ; but she would not leave the spot. 
Again and again, she mounted the stump, 
stood erect, looked round keenly, and snuff- 
ed the air. 

At last, a lucky thought seemed to strike 
her. She ran along the trunk of the fallen 
tree, and found her hole. You may depend 
upon it, there was great joy in the moss 
cradle ! She staid a few minutes, long 
enough to give the little ones their supper, 
and then off she scampered on the stone 
wall again. The boy followed in the direc- 
tion she went, and hid himself where he 
could watch. She came back shortly, took 
one of her young ones in her mouth, and set 
off at full speed, to the knot-hole of another 
tree. She came back again and again, al- 
most as swift as the wind, and never stopped 
to take a moment's rest, till she had carried 
all four of her little ones to their new home. 
The boy followed her, being careful not to 
go near enough to frighten her ; and he sa\v 



76 THE SaUIRREL 

her clamber up and place each one safely m 
a knot-hole. Afterward, when he went to 
drive the cows to and from pasture, he 
always went round by that tree ; and when 
he saw the happy mother and her four Httle 
ones capering among the green leaves, or 
sitting upright on the boughs, eating, after 
their pretty fashion, he felt glad indeed that 
he did not rob the poor squirrel, who had 
been so careful of her young. 

If the school-boy had known how to write 
poetry, he might have told his daily expe- 
rience in verse like this : 



" I've seen the freakish squirrels drop 
Down from their leafy tree ; 
The little squirrels with the old- 
Great joy it was to me ! 

And down unto the running brook, 

I've seen them nimbly go ; 
And the bright water seemed to speak 

A welcome kind and low. 

The nodding plants they bowed their heads, 

As if, in heartsome cheer, 
They spoke unto those little things, 

'Tis pleasant living here!" 

The same boy afterward traded with an- 
other for a little squirrel, taken from its mo 
ther's nest before its eyes were open. He 
made a bed of moss for it, and fed it very 



AND HER LITTLE ONES. 77 

tenderly. It seemed healthy and happy, but 
never grew as large as other squirrels. He 
did not put it in a cage ; for the kind-hearted 
boy thought that Httle animals, made to run 
and caper about in the green woods, could 
not be happy shut up. He knew it was not 
manly to be selfish about anything ; and so 
he thought more of the squirrel's comfort, 
than he did of his own grief, if it should run 
away. Yet if he had lost his squirrel, he 
would have cried most bitterly. There was 
no danger. There is no cord so strong as 
that of kindness. The pretty little creature 
loved him too well to leave him. She would 
run after him, and come at his call, like a 
kitten. While he was gone to school, she 
would run off to the woods, to a favourite 
tree that stood near his path homeward ; 
and there she would frisk round with the 
other squirrels, or take a nap in a knot-hole. 
If the weather was very warm, she would, 
according to the comfortable fashion of squir- 
rels, make herself a bed of twigs and green 
leaves across a crotch of the boughs, and 
sleep there. When her friend came from 
school, he had only to call " Bun, Bun, Bun," 
as he passed the tree, and down she would 
come, run up on his shoulder, and go home 
with him for her supper. 



78 



THE SaUIRREL. 



If we always treated animals with tender- 
ness, they would live with us in this free and 
familiar way. Would it not be beautiful ? 

I wish boys would learn to cultivate the 
spirit of the gentle poet Cowper, who thus 
addresses a little frightened hare, that took 
refuge in his garden : 

" Yes, thou mayest eat thy bread, and lick the hand 
That feeds thee ; thou mayest frolic on the floor 
At evening, and at night retire secure 
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarmed; 
For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged 
All that is human in me, to protect 
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love." 




THE YOUNG ARTIST. 




JOHN Paul was born in a 
village of Massachusetts. 
His father died when he 
was very small, and his mo- 
ther was poor. They lived 
far away from the road, in a 
little old house, half hidden 
with trees, lilacs, rose-bushes, and honey- 
suckles. All round the steps, peeped the 
bright little hardy flowers called Heart's 
Ease, Ladies' Delight, or Johnny-Jump-up. 
On an old post by the door, was a flower- 
pot containing a Perriwinkle, or Trailing 
Myrtle, its long green branches hanging al- 
most to the ground, dotted with purple blos- 
soms. At one corner of the old brown 
house, hung an Otaheitan geranium, in a 
basket, over which its light pendant foliage 
drooped gracefully, and moved about in the 
summer wind. At the other front corner of 



80 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

the eaves, the barn-swallows had come to 
build for many a year. In the spring time 
their happy twittering might be heard all 
day long, as they went back and forth for 
little tufts of hair and wool. 

The widow was fond of flowers, and lov- 
ed dearly to see the still moonlight on the 
brook, and the sunshine on the distant hills. 
If she had been educated, she might have 
been a painter, or a poet. Without know- 
ing it, she had made a sweet little picture, 
with her rose-bushes, her trailing myrtle, 
and her swinging basket of geraniums. Peo- 
ple do not need to be rich, in order to have 
beautiful things. When a mind loves the 
beautiful things of nature, it makes all around 
it beautiful ; and the birds, and the flowers, 
and the bees, all come to give their help. 

The widow rejoiced in her children's love 
for flowers. John and Maria had small gar- 
den-beds of their own ; and even little Fanny, 
though not three years old, would stick cow- 
slips and dandelions in the sand, and call it 
her " darden." Great joy had they all, when, 
in the very early spring-time, they found the 
first Blood-Root blossom, or fragrant sprig 
of Wild Lilac, to bring home to their deay 
mother. 

In rainy weather, their mother, if she was 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 81 

not too busy, would sometimes make for 
them pretty little dogs and rabbits of yellow 
wax, which answered for playthings many 
a day. But these good little children dia 
not play all the time. They were very in- 
dustrious and helpful. Little Fanny had 
been lame from her infancy, and her brother 
and sister delighted to tend upon her. They 
might often be seen trudging over the hills, 
to the distant village store ; John with baby 
in his arms, Maria with a big basket, and 
their little dog Pink running before, bark- 
ing at all the geese and hens he met. Maria 
had a very sweet voice. When John was 
seated on the door-step, making hemlock 
brooms for his mother, and Fanny sat be- 
side him, sticking the green sprigs into 
cracks, and Pink lay on the grass, with 
his nose up, watching for flies, she would 
sing to them like a bird, while she was help- 
ing mother wash the cups. 

One day, when they were thus employed, 
a young gentleman who was rambling in 
the fields, heard her warbling voice, and came 
toward the house. He was an artist, and 
the beauty of the old moss-grown dwel/ing, 
embosomed in vines and roses, with the busy 
group about the door, at once arrested his 
attention. John heard somebody call Fanny 
6 



82 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

a pretty little darling, and looking up saw a 
tall, pale-looking stranger. After playing 
with the dog, and talking a little with the 
children, the traveller said the country was 
so beautiful that he had wandered farther 
than he intended, and with their mother's 
permission, he would gladly walk in and rest 
himself He received a cordial welcome. 
The widow dusted a chair for him, John 
took his hat, and Maria brought berries and 
fresh milk to refresh him. He was very 
much pleased with this kind, cheerful family, 
and they were charmed with him. " I will 
be bound, sir," said the widow, "that the 
children always like you, wherever you go." 
He acknowledged that he was generally a 
favourite with little folks, for the simple rea- 
son that he loved them very much. Before 
he left, he told them he was staying at the 
village tavern, to take sketches of the country 
round about, and that he should like it ex- 
tremely, if they would let him board with 
them a few weeks. The widow blushed, 
and said she was poor, and lived in too small 
a way to suit gentlemen. But the children 
cried out, "Oh do, mother, do;" and the 
stranger said, " Your small way of living 
seems to me very beautiful." So it was 
agreed that he might bring his portmanteau 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 83 

the next day, and they would do the best 
ihey could to make him comfortable. 

This visit added greatly to the happiness 
of the children, and had an important effect 
on their futm'e lives. Mr. Page had read a 
great deal, and he told them much that they 
never knew before. He drew funny little 
faces, which greatly amused John. He cut 
paper figures for Fanny, and taught Maria 
new songs. From the twisted knotty boughs 
of an old oak, he fashioned a curious garden- 
chair, with the moss and bark on. John said 
the chair looked as if it were tipsy, and 
Maria said it was so twisted, that it seemed 
to be making up a face. This odd-looking 
chair, placed under the shade of a big tree 
by the side of the house, was Mr. Page's 
favourite seat. There he sat, finishing the 
landscapes that he sketched in his rambles. 
John, who had never seen any pictures, ex- 
cept in his spelling-book, used to gaze with 
wonder and veneration, when he saw hills, 
rivers, animals, and flowers, appear to start 
into life under his hand. His eyes bright- 
ened with joy when he obtained leave to 
roam in the woods with this new friend, or 
to accom])any him in a light little boat, as 
he dodged about among the numerous green 
islands up and down the river. On such 



84 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

occasions, little Fanny grew very impatient 
for them to come back, and Maria was care- 
ful to have their supper neatly spread, and 
everything looking bright, clean, and cheer- 
ful. 

When the artist had been there about 
three weeks, he one morning surprised them 
with a picture of their own house, with the 
bushes and vines, the hanging geranium, the 
crooked garden-chair, and the children just 
starting off with dog and basket. John was 
absolutely beside himself with joy. He 
lumped up, and clapped his hands, and 
dumped again. "Oh, mother!" exclaimed 
he, " shouldn't you think our Maria was just 
going to speak? and was there ever any- 
thing so like as little Fanny ? and as for the 
dog, he is best of all. I do believe if Mr. 
Page had put a pig in the picture, Pink would 
bark at it." 

The artist was much gratified by these 
expressions of childish joy and wonder, and 
with the more quiet pleasure manifested by 
their good mother. He said it was painful 
to him to leave them ; for he had never seen 
a place which he felt so strongly inclined to 
make his home. But business called him 
away, and he bade them farewell, with a 
hearty promise that if he lived and prosper 



\ THE YOUNG ARTIST. 85 

ed, he would try to do something for his 
favourite John. The poor boy had learned 
so much from him, and loved him so well, 
that he was too sad to attend to anything 
for several days after his departure. Maria 
often observed him standing by the mantel- 
piece, with his eyes fixed on a plate of 
peaches, which his friend had painted for 
him. His mother noticed that he often sat 
in silence, as if in deep thought ; and even 
little Fanny said that brother John did not 
laugh and play as he used to do. 

The fact was, this good boy had long had 
an earnest wish to do something for the sup- 
port of his mother and sisters ; and now a 
new thought had entered his brain. He 
could mould little rabbits in bee's wax, almost 
as well as his mother ; and he began to won- 
der within himself whether he could ever 
paint as well as Mr. Page. When he went 
across the fields, he noticed more than ever 
how tiie bright sunlight struck across the 
hills, and lelt them half in shadow. When 
an apple or a poach was placed on the table, 
he observed that the light fell brightly on 
one point, and he guessed that was the rea- 
son why Mr. Page put a white spot on the 
peaches he painted. He did not tell his 
thoughts to his mother and sisters, for fear 



86 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

they would think hhn a foolish boy. One 
day when he was going to the village to get 
a pair of shoes mended, his sisters, as usual, 
prepared to accompany him ; but to their 
great surprise, he told them he wished to go 
alone. Maria did not complain, but when 
he had gone, she sat down and cried, and 
poor little lame Fanny cried with her. Their 
mother tried to comfort them, and told them 
doubtless John had some good reason ; but 
they had been so accustomed to go every- 
where with their brother, that they thought 
it very unkind in him to choose to go alone. 
Had Maria known his motives, she would 
not have been thus grieved. The fact was, 
John had collected all his money to buy a 
paint-box and brushes ; and he wanted to 
keep it a profound secret, till he had tried 
his skill in painting. 

About a mile off, their lived a wealthy 
gentleman, named Loring, of whom Mr. 
Page borrowed the boat for his excursions 
on the river. He had a son Thomas, with 
whom John had struck up an acquaintance, 
as he went to and fro with messages. Tho- 
mas took a great fancy to the joyful, well- 
mannered boy, and often loaned him books 
and playthings. John remembered having 
seen a paint-box in his room, with the cakes 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 87 

of paint somewhat broken ; and he thought 
he might possibly buy it with what money 
he had. He went to Mr. Loring's, and stat- 
ed his wish so eagerly, that Thomas laughed 
heartily, and offered to give it to him. " But 
do tell me," said he, " why you are so very 
anxious for a paint-box." John blushed and 
stammered, and finally ventured to tell the 
hopes he had dared to form. His friend, 
instead of laughing at him, as he expected, 
entered very warmly into his plans, and told 
him he would do all he could to help him. 
Thus encouraged, John returned home with 
a light heart. He hid his paint-box in the 
trunk of an old tree, and kept the secret to 
himself But he felt so happy, that he jump- 
ed about, and made faces at Fanny, and 
kissed Maria, and made Pink bark, till he 
set them all a laughing at his pranks. 

Next morning, the enthusiastic boy rose 
very early, and having finished all his work, 
started for school an hour and a half eariier 
than usual. He stopped at the tree, and 
took out hiS precious box. His first attempt 
was to sketch a bunch of acorns lying on 
the ground ; and though the drawing was 
rude, it was done remarkably well for a boy, 
who had had no instruction in the art. He 
was so occupied with his delightful employ- 



88 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

ment, that he arrived at school nearly an 
hour too late. The teacher had many wild 
boys, and was obliged to make very strict 
rules. When John confessed that he brought 
no excuse from his mother for his tardiness, 
he ordered him to stand in the middle of the 
room for an hour. John had never before 
met with any disgrace at school, and he was 
very much mortified. For a little while, he 
resolved not to touch his brushes again ; but 
when he passed the tree on his way home, 
he could not forbear stopping to look at his 
acorns ; and when he had looked at them, 
he was tempted to try whether a few oak 
leaves would not improve them. Again he 
was so much occupied with his painting, that 
the school hour passed unheeded ; and, dread- 
ing to go too late again, he spent the whole 
afternoon in the woods. But John was too 
honest a boy to feel satisfied because he was 
not found out in doing wrong. He acknow- 
ledged to his mother that he was making 
something, in which he was so deeply inter- 
ested, that he had unintentionally gone to 
school too late, and had been punished for 
it ; that he did the same thing in the after- 
noon, and then was afraid to go at all. His 
mother was very sorry, for it was the first 
time she had ever known him stay away 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 89 

from school ; but she knew her son so well, 
that she felt sure he had not been employed 
about anything wrong. She told him that 
his honesty in confessing his fault was a great 
comfort to her ; that she felt the fullest con- 
fidence in him, and should not inquire what 
he had been doing, if he wished to keep it a 
secret. Being thus treated like a man, made 
him feel like a man ; and he answered very 
warmly, "Thank you, mother. You shall 
know the secret very soon, and I promise 
not to be late at school again." 

It required some strength to keep this pro- 
mise ; for work and school left a very small 
portion of the day for his favourite employ- 
ment. But he never again neglected his 
studies, or had occasion to ask his mother 
for a written excuse for absence. By rising 
very early, and working hard, he generally 
found about two hours a day to make draw- 
ings. In the course of eight or ten weeks, 
he improved so much, that he thought he 
might venture to have Pink sit for his por- 
trait. The dog, altogether unconscious of 
the honour intended him, followed his young 
master into the woods, and seated himself 
on a log, with his nose turned up in the air, 
as he was directed to do. John resolved that, 
if he succeeded in making a good Jikeness 

h 



90 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

he would carry it home, and surprise his 
mother and sisters with it. It was a long 
time before he succeeded in pleasing him- 
self. The poor animal jumped down two 
or three times, and whined when ordered back 
again, to sit with his paws folded up, while 
the patient artist sketched and rubbed out, 
sketched and rubbed out, fifty times over. 

John's head was so full of this business, that 
he found it very difficult to attend to his les- 
sons at school. His teacher could not ima- 
gine what was the matter with the boy. 
One day, he gave him a simple sum in the 
rule of three, which he could easily have 
done, had his mind been on arithmetic. Two 
hours passed, however, and the sum was not 
finished. The teacher stepped that way, 
and looking over John's shoulder, saw in the 
very middle of the figures, the picture of a 
dog tossing up his head, as if to catch flies. 
The young artist was so intent upon finish- 
ing the bushy tail, that he was not aware of 
his master's presence, till he heard himself 
spoken to very severely. When called upon 
to give a reason for such conduct, he hung 
his head, and said he had forgotten his sum. 
The teacher did not believe it ever did any 
good to whip his scholars ; but he was seri- 
ously oflfended, and told him he must quit 



THE yOUNG ARTIST. 91 

the school, unless he could be more atten- 
tive. 

Poor John thought he had a great deal of 
trouble in trying to be a painter ; but he was 
not discouraged. On his way home, he 
stopped at the tree, and put a finishing touch 
to his dog's picture. Thomas Loring was 
there waiting for him, according to promise. 
Never were two boys more delighted ; one 
with the picture, and the other with the 
praises bestowed upon it. In high glee, they 
carried it home ; and after much managing, 
and many sly glances between them, they 
succeeded in fastening it up against the wall, 
without being observed. Little Fanny was 
the first one to perceive it, and instantly call- 
ed out, " Do look at Pinky ! There he is, 
sitting on a log, to catch flies." Maria and 
her mother both exclaimed at once, " I de- 
clare it does look exactly like our Pink — the 
white spot on his neck, and all ! Where did 
you get it, John ? " 

Thomas, with sparkling eyes, proclaimed 
that their brother painted it himself. A glow 
of surprise and delight went over the good 
mother's countenance ; but an instant after, 
she said, half doubtingly, " Is he making fun 
of us, my son ? " " Indeed I did do it, mo- 
ther," he replied. She threw her arms about 
his neck, and kissed him. 



92 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

The famous Benjamin West said that his 
mother's kiss made him a painter. John 
Paul might have said the same ; for he never 
forgot the joy his mother manifested when 
she saw his first picture, and it helped him to 
persevere in overcoming many dijfficulties. 

Thomas took the greatest possible interest 
in John's improvement. One day, as he v^as 
going home from school, he met him at the 
memorable tree, and surprised him with a 
present of oil-colours, canvass, and all the 
utensils needed by an artist. There happen- 
ed to be a vacation about that time, and the 
boys resolved to spend much of it in the 
woods. But eager as John w^as to paint, he 
never neglected to pick up chips, chop w^ood, 
and bring w^ater sufficient for his mother's 
use, before he set out on these pleasant ex- 
cursions. Mr. Loring had heard such a good 
character of John, and w^as so much pleased 
with his frank countenance, and modest man- 
ners, that he was pleased to have his son 
spend most of his vacation with him. Never 
were happier holidays than the friends had. 
Sometimes Maria and Fanny carried their 
dinner to them in the woods, and sometimes 
John's kettle was packed in the morning, 
with bread and cheese, and dough-nuts, in 
real farmer's style. It was a pleasant sight 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 93 

to see the two healthy, happy lads march off 
in the cool bright morning, Pink capering at 
their heels, and Maria, with Fanny in her 
arms, following to the very edge of the wood^ 
to say good-bye. 

One day, when they had been at work 
chopping brush all the forenoon, John re- 
solved to spend the afternoon in sketching a 
landscape from where they stood. He pro- 
posed to have an early dinner, and that 
Thomas should amuse himself with finding 
nuts, or skipping stones in the little pond, 
while he was painting. " No danger but I 
will find enough to do," said the cheerful 
Thomas ; and away he went, to drive some 
stakes into the ground, and find a piece of 
board large enough for a table. His pocket- 
handkerchief answered for a table-cloth, on 
which the provisions were spread with much 
taste, ornamented with green leaves and 
acorns. John, who was up in a tree, cutting 
dry branches, repeatedly called out to know 
what he was doing. " You'll know by and 
by," said Thomas, as he ran off with the 
keg, to fill it with fresh water at the spring. 
On his way back, he called out, in an exult- 
ing tone, " Come down now, John. Dinnei 
is all ready." " It's a mighty great thing to 
get our dinner ready, to be sure," said John 



94 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

" you had better imitate the African prince, 
who, before eating, causes proclamation to 
be made that all the world are invited to 
come and eat of his yam." He hastened, 
however, to obev the summons. But when 
Thomas came into the open space, whence 
their rustic table was visible, he stopped in 
utter consternation. There stood the mis- 
chievous dog, munching the last bit of cheese, 
while board and table-cloth, with its pretty 
wreath of oak-leaves and acorns, lay pros- 
trate on the ground ! Being naturally a pas- 
sionate boy, he caught up a stick and chased 
poor Pink, who scampered off with the cheese 
in his mouth. John understood at a glance 
how the case was; and there he stood by 
the overturned table, with his hands on his 
knees, laughing till his cheeks ached. Tho- 
mas soon came back, his face red with vexa- 
tion and hard running, and throwing down his 
stick, exclaimed, " The plaguy dog ! 1 wish 
he had been to Bantam !" But when he saw 
John shaking his sides, he could not forbear 
laughing too. " Oh, it was worth forty din- 
ners," said John, " to see you look as you 
did, when you took up that stick to chase the 
dog ! I do believe I could paint that scene, 
it was so funny !" Thomas thought it was 
a happy idea ; and the young artist ventured 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 95 

to undertake the task. Vacation passed by 
and several weeks more, before the picture 
was finished ; bat when it was done, it was 
really a remarkable production for a lad of 
his age. There were great faults in the 
drawing, and the likeness was not very 
good ; but the expression of disappointmen 
and vexation, and the dog impudently shak- 
mg the cheese in his mouth, were enough to 
make any one laugh. 

Thomas was going to spend his long va- 
cation in Boston, with his father, and he in- 
sisted upon carrying the picture with him. 
He had not been there a week, before a let- 
ter came from Mr. Loring, urgently inviting 
John to come to Boston, and promising to 
pay the expenses of the journey. This was 
a great event in the life of a country lad, 
who had never been out of sight of his native 
village. The whole family were busily oc- 
cupied with fitting him out. Maria, though 
she had much to do, found time to knit a 
pretty purse for Thomas, and make a neat 
little melon-seed basket for his sister. These 
were the only presents they had to send; 
but they loaded John's memory with kind 
messages, and half-happy, half- tearful, they 
saw him depart on this important visit. 

When the young rustic first entered Mr 



96 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

Loring's elegant city mansion, he was daz- 
zled and almost overpowered, by the rich 
furniture, the statues, and the paintings. But 
Thomas was so rejoiced to see him, and Mr. 
Loring put his hand on his head so affection- 
ately, and bade him welcome in such a kind 
voice, that he soon felt it was only another 
kind of home. As for politeness, John had 
no occasion to learn it as an art ; for the 
modest and the gentle are polite by nature. 

A few days after his arrival, Mr. Loring 
proposed to the boys to accompany him to 
the Athenaeum, where a large collection of 
pictures are exhibited. Our self-taught artist, 
who had seen no pictures, was struck dumb 
with wonder. Had a stranger seen him 
staring round, he might have thought him a 
stupid boy. He staid very long, and even 
when the dinner-hour arrived, was extreme- 
ly reluctant to go. As he passed near the 
stairs, he saw Mr. Loring shake hands with 
a gentleman, who said to him, " Did you say, 
sir, that this spirited little sketch was done 
by a country boy, who had received no in- 
struction?" "I did," he replied. " May I 
ask his name ? " The voice sounded familiar 
to John's ear, and his heart began to beat. 
'^ He is an old acquaintance of yours," an- 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 97 

swered Mr. Loring, smiling. " No other 
than John Paul, the son of our neighbour in 
the fields. And here he is, to answer for him* 
self." The meeting was a joyful one. Some 
one had placed in Mr. Page's hands the picture 
of the dog and the spoiled dinner ; and he 
was both surprised and delighted to find that 
it was the production of his Httle rural friend. 
John blushed, and looked happy, and said 
modestly, that he sometimes hoped that he 
might one day become an artist ; but if he 
ever did, all the thanks would be due to the 
kind stranger, who first showed him how 
pictures were made. Mr. Page afterward 
pointed out to him the faults of his drawing, 
and impressed it upon his mind, that though 
remarkable for a boy, it was still very im- 
perfect. John had good sense enough to 
receive this instruction with even more thank- 
fulness than he did the praise. 

Mr. Loring w^as so much pleased with his 
modest deportment, and with his eagerness 
to improve, that he paid one of the best 
teachers, to instruct him in perspective. The 
art of perspective consists in drawing va- 
rious objects in such a manner as to make 
the distances appear what they really are 
in nature, though the piece of paper is much 
too small actually to contain such distances. 



98 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

The inside of a very large church may be 
represented oq a sheet of letter-paper ; and 
this effect is produced entirely by drawing 
the Unes according to certain rules. The 
teacher had a good many curious specimens 
of perspective. When John entered his 
room, and looked through a small hole in a 
screen, as he was requested, he saw a pretty 
stair-case, winding, winding away, till it was 
lost in the distance. Through another hole, 
he saw a piano, one pedal of which seemed 
to have been slightly pressed down by the 
foot that rested on it. Through another, he 
saw the interior of a kitchen, with a cabbage 
cut in two lying on the table ; an old basket 
just ready to tip ofTof the little shelf on which 
it stood ; a towel hanging on a nail, &c. In 
another place, was to be seen a pretty lit- 
tle velvet ottoman, carelessly covered with 
cards, as if a child had been playing there. 
Some of the cards had fallen on the floor, 
and others looked as if a breath would make 
them fall. 

" Are they not worth looking at ? " asked 
Thomas. 

" They are pretty indeed," replied John ; 
" but the stairs and footstools in your father's 
house are a great deal handsomer. I don't 
see why these should be kept for a show." 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 99 

Thomas laughed heartily, and told him there 
were no such things there, as winding stairs, 
piano, basket, or ottoman. They were all 
painted on the wall ; but drawn so correct- 
ly, according to the rules of perspective, that 
they appeared exactly hke real furniture. 
The teacher then came forward, and told 
them that there was one real article among 
the painted ones, and if either of them could 
tell, at one guess, which it was, he would 
give him a handsome penknife. They both 
tried, but neither of them guessed right. 
When John was informed that Mr. Loring 
had employed this gentleman to teach him 
the rules of perspective, he did not know 
how to express his gratitude ; but in his own 
mind, he resolved to do it by making the 
most rapid improvement possible. 

On their way home, the boys met Mr. 
Page, who invited them to go with him to 
see an engraver. John had a very imper- 
fect idea how engravings were made, and 
he had a great curiosity to see it done. 
When they entered the room, Mr. Page 
pointed out to him a large plate of steel, 
with fine lines cut all over it. He saw that 
there were trees and children, but he could 
not clearly make out what it was, till the 
engraver held up a sheet of paper, and told 



100 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

him it was an engraving taken from that 
plate, after the proper ink had been rolled 
over it. John gazed in astonishment ; for 
there stood their little old house in the fields, 
w^ith the trailing geranium, the crooked gar- 
den-chair, himself, and Fanny in his arms, 
Maria with her big basket, and Pink caper- 
ing round them ! Mr. Page smiled at his 
look of surprise, and asked him if he didn't 
remember the picture he painted, while he 
boarded at their cottage. " Indeed I do, 
sir," replied the enthusiastic boy ; " for that 
picture was the first thing that made me 
want to be a painter." Mr. Page patted him 
on the head affectionately, and told him he 
should have one of the engravings, hand- 
somely framed, to carry to his good mother. 
After a delightful visit of six weeks, John 
went home, with wonders enough to talk 
about all winter. He was more diligent 
than ever to improve himself, both in his 
studies and his drawings ; but he never neg- 
lected to perform every little service he 
could, for his mother and sisters. " I should 
have been perfectly happy in Boston," said 
he, "if I had not often thought how you 
would miss me ; and that perhaps Maria 
would be tired lugging Fanny about ; and 
your arms would ache bringing water fron) 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 101 

the well, for washing." His mother kissed 
him, and said, " I am glad, my son, that all 
the praise you have had, and all the fine 
things you have seen, have not made yoii 
selfish, or forgetfiil of your daily duties." 

" I would never touch pencil or brush 
again, if I thought they would make me grow 
selfish, lazy, or proud," replied the warm- 
hearted boy. 

In the summer, Mr. Loring and his family 
were again in the country, and the boys had 
happy times together. When they returned 
to Boston, in the autumn, he proposed to 
take John with him, to attend school with 
his son. The mother, though sad to part 
with him, consented with a grateful heart. 
But John hesitated, and the tears stood in 
his eyes. "Should you not like to go?" 
inquired Mr. Loring. " I should indeed, 
sir," replied the good boy ; " but my mother 
has need of somebody to chop wood, and 
draw water, and bring home stores from the 
village ; and I am afraid it would be selfish 
to go." 

" No, my good child," said his mother ; 
"the best way to help me, is to improve 
yourself" 

" And you know," said Thomas, '' that 
you and I are going to make a nice little 
wagon of willow twigs, and a good strong 



102 THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

sled for Fanny, so that Maria will not neea 
to carry he;r in her arms." 

" So we will," said John ; " and perhaps 
I can sell some of my drawings, and those 
little things cut in paper, which your father 
likes so much ; and if I go, I will hire Tom 
White to come up every day to see that 
mother has wood and water, and that the 
snow is shoveled out of her paths. I do wish 
postage was not so dear ; for I should like 
to write a letter home every day." 

The good little fellow kept his word. If 
he had been thirty years old, he could not 
have been more thoughtful in taking care 
for his mother and sisters. He continues to 
improve very fast, and some people think he 
will make one of the best artists in the coun- 
try. The strongest desire of his heart is to 
be able to earn enough to put his sisters to 
some good school. Maria and Fanny are 
as busy as bees, braiding straw for the same 
purpose. "I do not want my brother to 
work for us all the time," said the noble girl. 
"I will earn my own living, and I will help 
to support our dear mother, when she grows 
old." 

"And I will help, too," said little Fanny. 

"God bless you all, my good children," 
said the happy mother ; and they were 
blessed. 




HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 



" Birds are in the forest old, 

Building in each hoary tree ; 
Birds are on the green hills, 
Birds are by the sea." 



" Mark it well, within, without! 
No tool had she that wrought ; no knife to cut, 
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert, 
No glue to join; her little beak was all; 
And yet how neatly finished ! " 

ID you ever see a bird's 
nest, my young reader ? I 
dare say you have, and 
have greatly w^ished that 
you could watch the pretty 
little creature, while she 
made it. There are a great 
Variety of nests. Some birds make them 




104 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NEKTS. 

with much more neatness and ingenuity than 
others. There are the Ground-Builders, the 
Platform Builders, the Mining-Birds, the 
Mason-Birds, the Carpenter-Birds, the Bas- 
ket-making-Blrds, the Dome-Builders, the 
Cementers, the Weaver-Birds, the Tailor- 
Birds, and the Felt-making Birds. 

Birds that build on the earth, or the floor, 
are called Ground-Builders. The Redbreast, 
the pretty little Song Sparrow, and the Yel- 
low-winged Sparrow, build their nice little 
nests of dried grass, lined with horse-hair, 
close to the root of some protecting bush, or 
under the shelter of a high tuft of grass. 
The swamp Sparrow, and other little birds 
that love watery places, make their nests of 
wet grass, rushes, and sea-moss, often in the 
midst of a bunch of rank grass, surrounded 
by water. 

The famous Eider-Duck, from which the 
warm eider-down is obtained, for our hoods 
and cloaks, builds near the sea-shore, under 
a Juniper bush, or a bundle of dry sea-weed. 
They make a rough matress of dry grass 
and sea-weed, over which the good mother 
spreads a bed for her little ones, of the finest 
and softest down, plucked from her own 
breast. She heaps it up, so as to form a 
thick puffed roll round the edge ; and when 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIE NESTS. 105 

she is obliged to go away in search of food, 
she pulls the roll down, and carefully spreads 
it over the eggs, to keep them warm till she 
returns. 

This down is so very light and warm that 
it brings a high price. One nest generally 
contains about half a pound, which sells for 
two dollars. In some parts of Greenland 
and Iceland, these nests are so thick, that 
you can scarcely walk near the sea-shore 
without treading on them. People steal the 
down, and the poor mother again plucks her 
breast, and patiently lines the nest anew. 
If again robbed, and she has no more down 
to give, the father-bird plucks his breast to 
line a cradle for his family. These birds 
often build in places so hard to get at, that 
men are let down by ropes, over steep pre- 
cipices, to rob their nests of the precious 
down. 

Birds that do not shape a hollow nest, but 
simply strew their materials on a flat sur- 
face, are called Platform-builders. The Ring 
Dove, or Wood Pigeon, merely lays a pile 
of twigs and leaves on the branches of an 
oak or fir tree. The Eagle builds his rude, 
strong nest of large sticks and sods of earth 
on the ledge of some high precipice. Storks 
spread twigs and straw on the roofs of houses, 



106 HOW THE BIRDS MAiiE THEIR NESTS. 

the towers of old churches, and the columns 
of ruined temples. Almost every pillar 
among the ruins of Persepolis, in Persia, 
contains a stork's nest. In Bagdad, and 
other cities of Asiatic Turkey, nearly all the 
towers of the mosques are surmounted by a 
stork's nest ; and the large bird, stretching 
up her long neck, looks like a carved pinna- 
cle or ornament. The ancients considered 
the stork sacred, and in all modern countries 
visited by these birds, they are viewed with 
great tenderness. This is partly owing to 
their usefulness in destroying reptiles and 
vermin, and partly because they are so faith- 
ful and affectionate to each other. In win- 
ter, they go south, to Arabia, Egypt, and 
other warm countries ; but the same mates 
return, year after year, to the same nests. 
In Germany and S-pain, many families know 
their own particular storks, and the storks 
know them. It is considered great good 
luck to have them build on the house roof. 
In marshy districts, where they are particu- 
larly useful in destroying reptiles, the inhab- 
itants often fasten an old cart-wheel on the 
top of a strong high post, and the storks are 
almost always si5re to spread their nests 
upon it. The Turks hold them in peculiar 
veneration ; and the storks understand their 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 107 

attachment so well, that in cities abounding 
with foreigners, they will single out the Turk- 
ish houses to build upon. When the Greeks 
were at war with the Turks, they were un- 
manly enough to show their hatred by kill- 
ing the storks. When remonstrated with 
for their cruelty, they answered, " It is a vile 
Turkish bird, and will never build on the 
house of a Greek." But if they had loved 
and protected the birds, I dare say they 
would have nestled on their houses. 

Mining birds are those that scoop out 
nests in the ground. Bank Swallows cling 
with their sharp claws to the side of a sandy 
bank, and peck at it with their hard bills, as 
a miner would with a pick-axe. They bore 
little winding galleries two or three feet into 
the bank, slope them upward to keep out the 
rain, and at the end, place a nice little bed 
of hay and feathers. These birds live toge- 
ther in large flocks. Sometimes the face of 
a sand bank will be entirely covered with 
the round holes by which they enter their 
nests. 

Owls, Puffins, and Penguins, burrow deep 
holes under ground, with many turnings and 
windings. They dig with their strong sharp 
bills, and scrape out the rubbish with their 
feet, in some unfrequented places, they 



108 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 

bore so many holes in the loose sandy soil, 
that it caves in, when a traveller attempts to 
walk over it. No doubt they are verv neigh- 
bourly in such cases, and lend each other 
their houses, till repairs can be made. 

Mason birds build with mud and clay, 
moistened by a kind of glutinous liquid from 
their own throats. Cliff Swallows go in 
flocks, and fasten a whole settlement of such 
nests under a projecting ledge of rock, oi 
under the eaves of a house. They look like 
rough little jugs glued against the wall, with 
the open mouth outward for an entrance. 
Within, they are lined with dried grass. 
Though they have no shovels to mix their 
mortar, and no barrows to carry their sand, 
these industrious little creatures finish their 
houses in the course of three days. 

The Window vS wallow is so called because 
she likes to place her nest in the corners 
formed by the brick or stone work of win- 
dows. She makes it of mud or clay, with 
little bits of broken straw kneaded in, to 
make it tough. As she builds against an 
upright wall, without anything to stand on, 
she is obliged to cling tight with her sharp 
claws, and steady herself by pressing her 
tail against the wall. In this way, she lays 
a foundation, by plastering her materials 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 109 

against the brick or stone. She frequently 
goes away, to leave her masonry a chance 
to dry ; and when it becomes hard enough 
not to fall by its own weight, she adds a lit- 
tle more. People sometimes place scallop 
shells near their windows, to induce the so- 
ciable little creatures to come and build. 
They often nestle in them ; but, for fear of 
a tumble, they are always careful to make 
a substantial ridge of masonry underneath 
the shell. A pair of these birds built, for 
two successive years, on the handles of a 
pair of garden shears, stuck into the boards 
of an outhouse. They line their little cra- 
dles with straw and feathers, or moss inter- 
woven with wool. 

The Barn Swallows, of this country, are 
as universal favourites as the Window Swal- 
lows are in England. They build among 
the rafters and beams of barns and sheds, 
and fly in and out when the farmer is tend- 
ing his cows, without seeming the least afraid. 
They make a plaster of clay and bits of fine 
straw, and in some snug corner of the rafters 
they fashion a little cup-shaped nest, warmly 
lined with fine bits of hay, hair, and feathers, 

" Often from the careless back 
Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills 
Fluck hair and wool ; and oft, when unobserved, 



110 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS 

Steal from the barn a straw ; till soft and warm, 
Clean and complete, their habitation grows." 

Sometimes twenty or thirty swallows will 
build side by side, in the same barn. They 
never quarrel, but seem to live together in 
most happy friendship. I once watched a 
pair of swallows, while they were making 
their nest, and feeding their young. It was 
great joy to me to hear their happy voices, 
as they flew in and out with straws and 
feathers. The father-bird was very kind 
and attentive to his mate. When he found 
a particularly large and downy feather, he 
would bring it to her in a great hurry, and 
pour forth a gush of song, as if his little heart 
were brimful of love and joy. 

But the neatest nest is made by the Song- 
Thrush. In some hawthorn-hedge, holly- 
bush, or silver-fir, she lays a foundation of 
feathery green moss, which she fashions into 
a rounded wall, by means of grass stems and 
bits of straw. Round the edge, she makes 
a thick band, to keep all in place. When 
the frame is completed, she lays on the in- 
side a thin coating of yellow plaster, which 
is hard, water-proof, and as smooth and pol^ 
ished as a tea-cup. 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. Ill 




NEST OF THE SOT<IG THBUS] 



In South America, a bird, called the Baker- 
bird, makes a nest shaped like a baker's oven, 
on the leafless branch of some tree, a high 
post, or a crucifix. It is made of mortar, 
which the birds carry in their bills, in small 
pellets, about as big as a filbert. The inte- 
rior is divided into two rooms, by a partition 



112 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 

of the same mason- work. A bed of dried 
grass is spread for the eggs. These nests 
last more than one season, and are so con- 
venient that swallows, parroquets, and other 
birds, are apt to go in and take possession, 
and the builder has trouble to drive them 
away. 

You have probably seen, in museums, tall 
scarlet birds from Africa, called Flamingoes. 
These birds build, in the marshes, hillocks 
of mud and slime, as high as their long legs. 
The base is broad, and a little hollow is left 
at top for their eggs, which they hatch stand- 
ing. They look awkwardly enough, strad- 
dling across their mud hillocks. 

The Carpenter-birds cut places for them- 
selves in the trunks of trees. The strongest 
and most active of them are the Wood- 
peckers, of which there are several species. 
They have short bills, very sharp and hard. 
When they find a suitable tree, the father- 
bird begins to cut a hole, as round and smooth 
as if made by a carpenter's tool. While he 
rests, the mother does her share. They 
carefully carry away all the chips they make ; 
probably to avoid drawing attention to the 
nest. The entrance is just big enough for 
the bird to pass through. It slopes down- 
ward, and terminates in a sizeable little room, 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 113 

as neat as if finished by a cabinet-maker 
Some species make it eighteen or twenty 
inches deep, others three or four feet. But 
notwithstanding the pains they take to place 
their Httle ones in safety, an ugly snake some- 
times gets in and eats them up ; and if a 
naughty boy pokes in a stick, to disturb the 
poor httle woodpeckers, he sometimes starts 
out a great black snake. 

The House- Wren is a great pester to the 
Woodpecker. Though a very small bird, she 
is very noisy, pert, and mischievous. If she 
finds a nice Httle nest of the Blue Bird, in the 
hole of an apple-tree, or among the box in 
the garden, she watches till blue bird is 
absent, and then pulls her nest to pieces, as 
fast as her little bill can work. When a 
woodpecker begins his house, she watches 
till she thinks he has made a hole deep enough 
to suit her purpose, and then, while he has 
gone to carry off' his chips, the impudent 
thing walks in and takes possession. I once 
saw a very amusing contest between these 
birds. The w^ren stole a nicely chisseled 
hole, and began to make her nest. While 
she was gone for food, the woodpecker came 
back, and pitched all her twigs and feathers 
out of doors. The wren kept up a shrill 
scolding about it, and as soon as the wood- 

k 8 



114 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 

pecker left her hole, she carried back all the 
straw and feathers. But the moment she 
left her stolen tenement, the woodpecker 
tossed them all out again. Birds of various 
kinds and sizes gathered round, to witness 
the quarrel, and made as loud a chattering 
about it, as if they had called an extra ses- 
sion of Congress to settle the dispute. At 
last, the woodpecker went off to cut a hole 
in another tree. If the wren had known 
where he went, I dare say she would have 
followed him, and turned him out of his own 
house again. 

The purple Martins, for whom we build 
such pretty little martin-boxes on our barns 
and outhouses, are likewise much plagued by 
the bustling, scolding little wren. She quar- 
rels with the martins, breaks up their nests, 
while they are away from home, and takes 
possession herself. A gentleman who watch- 
ed one of these fights, says the martins, at 
last, went into the box when the wren was 
absent, and built up the opening with clay 
and straw, so that she could not get in. The 
wren, after sputtering and tearing round for 
two days, finally went off', and left the mar- 
tins in peace. 

The House Wren seems to be in America 
a bird of the same character as the House- 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 115 

Sparrow in Europe ; of whom Mary Howitt 
writes : 

*' At home, he plagues the martins with his noise — 
They build, he takes possession and enjoys; 
Or if he wants it not, he takes it still. 
Just because teasing; others is his will. 
From hour to hour, from tedious day to day, 
He sits to drive the rig-htful one away." 

The Basket-making birds weave sticks 
and twigs together hke a little basket, and 
line it with a nice soft matting of fine fibrous 
roots. The Blue Jay, the Bulfinch, the 
Mocking Bird, the Solitary Thrush, and 
several other small birds, build in this way. 
But none of them makes a neater nest than 
the Blue Linnet, or Indigo Bird. She swings 
her pretty little cradle between two stalks of 
corn, or strong high grass, around which she 
fastens strips of flax, woven into a basket- 
work frame, and lined with fine dry grass. 

The Reed Bunting builds among reeds in 
a similar way. 

Crows make a clumsy basket-nest, of twigs 
and black-thorn branches, with the thorns 
sticking out all round. Within is a soft bed 
of wool, or rabbit's fur. 

Rooks make a frame- work similar to their 
cousins, the crows, and line it with a basket- 
work of fine fibrous roots. These birds live 



I 16 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS, 



NEST OP THE REED BUNTING. 

together in flocks. In England, whole groves 
of trees may be seen loaded with their nests. 
They are likewise fond of building among 
the spires and battlements of old Gothic 
buildings. Sometimes a young couple wil 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 117 

pilfer from an old nest, to save themselves 
the trouble of flying far for sticks and twigs. 
As soon as the rooks find this out, they gather 
together, and show their displeasure by pull- 
ing the stolen nest to pieces. Their dislike 
of such thievish neighbours is so strong, that 
when they try to rebuild their nest, one is 
obliged to stay and guard it all the time, 
while the other goes for materials. But when 
the mother begins to lay her eggs, the neigh- 
bours cease to molest them, and leave them 
to bring up their brood in peace. 

Of all the basket-makers, the Sociable 
Grosbeak of Africa seems the most remark- 
able. These birds cover the boughs of an 
entire tree with a roof made of Boshman's 
grass, so firmly basketed together that not a 
drop of water can get through. It slopes, 
like an umbrella, to carrv the rain oflf. All 
round the eaves of this canopy are a multi- 
tude of little nests, so close together, that the 
same opening sometimes answers for two or 
three families. 

Birds which make their nests with an 
opening at the side, instead of the top, are 
called Dome-Builders. In hot countries they 
are more apt to build so; probably for the 
sake of a roof to shield them from the sun. 
The European wren builds a beautiful littla 



118 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 

nest in this way, of green moss lined with 
hair. It looks like a common bird's nest 
standing up on end. 

The Hay Bird builds a loose nest, in simi- 
lar fashion. 




HAT-BIBD 8 KSBT. 



The American Marsh Wren makes a very 
strong and ingenious nest. It is formed of 
wet rushes mixed with mud, well intertwist- 
ed, and moulded into the form of a cocoa nut 
A small hole is left in the side, and the upper 
edge projects over the lower, like a pent- 
house to keep off the rain. The inside is 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 119 

lined with fine soft grass and feathers. It is 
generally suspended among strong reeds, 
above the reach of the tide. It is tied so 
fast that the winds cannot blow it down, and 
when hardened by the sun, it will stand all 
kinds of weather. 

The Magpie makes a loose irregulai 
fabric of thorny branches, and builds a dome 
over her nest with the same material. The 
opening is small, and the thorns sticking out- 
ward form a prickly fence all round. Inside 
is a bowl of well-wrought clay, as much 
as a foot deep, lined with dry grass and 
fibrous roots. Even the fox, with all his 
cunning, would find it difficult to get at her 
treasure. Magpies are great thieves, and 
take a particular fancy to shining things, such 
as buttons, spoons, and rings, which they 
carry oflT and hide in their deep nests. 

There is a British bird called Jack-in-the- 
Bottle, or Bottle-Tit, because he builds a 
long, bottle-shaped nest, with the mouth tip- 
ped downward, so that the large round end 
forms a nice overarching dome for his little 
ones. It is made of white and gray hchens, 
lined with moss, wool, and cobwebs, closely 
felted toirether, and covered with an abun- 
dance of feathers. 

Some birds are called Cementers, because 



120 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 

they form their nest of a kind of cement. 
The most remarkable of these is a small gray 
bird in China, called the Esculent Swallow. 
They build in deep caves near the sea-shore, 
and their nests are firmly glued against the 
rock. They are of a substance like isinglass, 
supposed to be manufactured by the birds 
from a glutinous kind of fish-spawn, that 
floats on the surface of the sea. They are 
called Edible Nests, because epicures like to 
eat them in soup or broth. Before they 
have been used by the birds, they are very 
W'hite and clean, and in that state often sell 
for more than their weight in silver. 

Of the Weaver-Birds the best workman is 
the Baltimore Oriole, likewise called the 
Golden Robin, and Fiery Hanging Bird, on 
account of the flaming brilliancy of her 
feathers. Of flax, hemp, or tow, she weaves 
a strong cloth-like nest, hangs it from a fork- 
ed twig, and sews it firmly with long horse- 
hair. They will carry off skeins of thread, 
and strings from the grafts of trees, to weave 
into these curious nests. Near the top, there 
is a hole for entrance. The inside is lined 
with soft substances, and finished with a neat 
layer of hair. One of these ingenious birds, 
having found an old epaulette, pulled it to 
pieces, and wove a nest of silver v^ire. 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE TEEIR NESTS. 121 

'* The shining wire she pecked and twirled, 
Then bore it to her boug-h, 
Where on a flowery twig 'twas curled — 
The bird can show you how/* 

This glittering nest was shown as a great 
curiosity ; but I don't beUeve the young birds 
found it any more comfortable, or liked it any 
better, than one made of tow^ 

The Hindoos are much attached to a do- 
cile little bird called the Bengal Sparrow. 
She w^eaves grass into a bottle-shaped nest, 
hung on the highest tree she can find ; usu- 
ally a Palm, or an Indian Fig-tree. The 
entrance is at the bottom, as a security 
against snakes, and other creatures of prey. 
It is fastened very securely to the twig, but 
sw^ings about in the wind. The interior 
consists of two or three chambers, against 
the walls of which they fasten, in moist clay, 
the brilliant fire-flies of India. The Hindoos 
believe they do it to light their rooms. 
Whether this conjecture be true or not, it is a 
well established fact that they do fasten these 
luminous insects inside their nests; and if 
taken away, they immediately procure others. 
These knowing little birds can be taught 
to fetch and carry notes from one house to 
another ; and if a ring be dropped over a 
well, they will, at a given signal, dive with 



122 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS, 



astonishing swiftness, and catch it before it 
touches the water. 

Feh-Making Birds manufacture their nests 
of moss, leaves, and wool, closely felted to- 
gether, into a substance like that made by- 
hatters. The English Chaffinch and Gold- 
finch build such nests in the fork of a tree. 



J/oT^. 




NEST OP THE GOLDFTNOH. 



with a neat lining of smoothly woven hair 
Canary Birds make a felted nest, in the crotch 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 123 

of an Orange tree, and line it with the hair 
of deer or rabbits, if they can find it. 

Tailor-Birds are those that sew their nests 
together. The Orchard StarHng of the Uni- 
ted States, makes a nest of long tough grass, 
sewed through and through in a thousand 
directions, as if done with a needle and 
thread. It is lined with button-wood down, 
and almost always suspended from the twig 
of an apple-tree. 

The Tailor-Bird of the East Indies, by the 
help of her long pointed bill, and the fine 
flexible fibres of plants, sews two large leaves 
firmly together, and makes inside a nice lit- 
tle bed of cotton-down and feathers. 

The dear little Humming-Bird makes a 
jewel of a nest, about an inch in diameter. 
The outside is of the bluish-gray lichen, so 
common on old trees and fences. Inside is 
the down of mullein, fern, and other plants, 
closely felted together, and laid as smoothly 
as a carpet. It contains two pure white 
eggs, not much bigger than large peas. This 
cunning little nest looks like a knot of moss 
on the branch of a tree. 

In Africa, there is a small bird, called the 
Cape-Tit, which felts together a species of 
cotton-down into a fabric as thick as a stock- 
ing. It is shaped like a bottle, and near the 



124 HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 

top is a snug little pocket on the outside, for 
the father-bird to sleep in. If both the birds 
go away at once, they beat the opening of 
the nest wnth their wings, till they felt it to- 
gether, and thus close the entrance com- 
pletely. This is their way of shutting the 
nursery door and taking the key. 

Can any boy read how much pains these 
pretty creatures take to make a safe and 
comfortable home for their little ones, and 
not resolve that he will never do harm to a 
bird's nest? I hope not. I would almost 
as soon steal a baby in its cradle, and leave 
the poor mother to grieve, as I would rob a 
bird of her nest, or her eggs. They have 
little hearts, that ache as ours do, when any- 
body kills those they love. Sometimes they 
even die of grief The poor Httle things ! 

A very good man, named John Wool man, 
tells this story of himself: "Once, in my 
childhood, as I went to a neighbour's house, 
I saw, on the way, a robin sitting on her 
nest. As I came near, she went off; but 
having young ones, she flew^ about, and with 
many cries expressed her concern for them. 
I stood and threw stones at her, till one struck 
her, and she fell down dead. At first, I was 
pleased with this exploit ; but after a few 
minutes, I was seized with horror, because 



HOW THE BIRDS MAKE THEIR NESTS. 125 

I had, in a sportive way, killed an innocent 
creature while she was careful of her young. 
When I beheld her lying dead, I began to 
think how those young ones, for which she 
was so careful, must now perish for want 
of a mother to feed them. After some pain- 
ful reflection, I climbed the tree, and killed 
all the young birds ; thinking it better to do 
this, than to leave them to pine away, and 
die miserably. Thus did I fulfil the Scrip- 
ture proverb, ' The tender mercies of the 
wicked are cruel.' Then I went on my er- 
rand ; but for hours I could think of little else 
but the cruelty I had committed ; and I was 
much troubled.'' 

I wish all my young readers may have 
as kind a heart, and as tender a conscience, 
as this good boy, who lived to be a man, and 
was a great blessing to the poor and the dis- 
tressed. 



THE PRESENT 



A LITTTE DRAMA. 



Charlotte. {Coming slowly out of the 
breakfast-room.) Father has not come down 
yet. I do wish he would. George, what 
do you suppose he meant when he said last 
night that he should make us a charming 
present this morning ? 

George. I think he has bought me a cap 
and feather. I asked him for one. You 
knov/ they made me captain of the boy's 
company last week. 

Charlotte. (Laughing.) My heart, George, 
don't try to walk so tall ! If you want to be 
a mighty magnificent little man, as father 
calls you, do step upon the cricket, and take 
this pen for a sword. Captain George. Come, 
don't be in a pet, now. You know I think 
it is a very grand thing to have a captain for 
a brother. But I am sure father did not 
mean a cap and feather ; for he said the pre- 



THE PRESENT. 127 

sent was for us. He did not say it was for 
you. Besides, he told me I must be more 
like a woman, after I received this present ; 
and that I must try hard to keep my good 
resolutions. And I do mean to be good. I 
don't mean to tell the least mite of an un- 
truth all this year. Father says I am almost 
a woman now. There's the door-bell ring- 
ing, ril speak to John. (She opens the door 
just as John is passing.) John, there is 
somebody ringing. If it is any little girl to 
see me, tell her I am very much engaged. 
Don't say I have gone out. I don't wish you 
to tell any lies for me. Now, George, please 
tell me what you are laughing at ? 

George. My heart, Charlotte, don't try to 
talk so very tall ! If you want to be a mighty 
magnificent little woman, as father says, just 
step upon this cricket. 

Charlotte. (Pouting a little.) I say it isn't 
fair of you to plague me so, George. 

George. Come, don't be in a pet, now. 
You know I think it is a very great thing to 
have such a lady for a sister. But here 
comes father. Now for the present ! {They 
jump, and catch hold of the skirts of his coat.) 

Both. What is it, father ? What is it ? 

Father. What do you guess it is ? 

George. A cap and feather. 



128 THE PRESENT. 

Charlotte. A big French doll. 

Father. Charlotte has made the best guess. 
It is more like a doll, than it is like a cap and 
feather. 

George. Is it anything alive ? 

Father. Yes, it is something alive. 

George. Is it a bird ? 

Charlotte. Is it a lamb ? 

Father. It is something like a lamb. 

Both. Do show it to us, dear father. 

{He goes out^ and soon after returns with 
a hahy in his arms.) 

Father. Here is a little sister for you. 

Charlotte. I declare, it is a baby sister. 

George. Why, so it is ! 

Father. Is this as pretty a present as you 
expected ? 

George. Why, I thought it would be a 
cap and feather. 

Charlotte. And I thought perhaps it would 
be a great doll. But I think I shall love this 
little sister better than a doll. What a pretty 
little mouth she has ; and what cunning little 
fingers. By and bye, she will know me ; 
won't she, father ? {She kisses the babe.) 

George. Let me kiss her, too. I like 
her, though she is not a cap and feather. 
By and bye, she will trot round after me, 



THE PRESENT. 



129 



and call me Dordy. And I'll pull the rib- 
bon off her hair, and make her squeal. 

Charlotte, No you mustn't. Shall he, 
father ? She is my sweet little sister, and I 
won't let you vex her. 

George. Oh, Charlotte, she will soon be 
big enough to jump on the cricket, and be a 
mighty magnificent little woman ; and when 
the bell rings, she will say, .John, if any little 
girls call to see me, say that I am very much 
engaged ; I don't wish you to tell any lies 
for me. {He runs out, looking hack and 
laughing,) 

Charlotte, {Running to the front door, 
calls after him,) Oho, Captain George, I 
suppose you feel very tall, with your com- 
pany ! Where's your cap and feather ? 

George, Where's your doll ? 

Charlotte. My doll is alive. She is a 
sweet little sister. 



^<^^ A'^ 



n 








THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 




NCE there was a little fairy 
remarkable for her impa- 
tience and indolence. They 
are generally a busy little 
race ; but, as there are 
drones in a bee-hive, so 
there have been, as it is said, 
lazy fairies. I w^ill name this one Papillon, 
which is the French word for butterfly ; for 
she dearly loved to be dressed in gaudy col- 
ours, to sleep in the rich chambers of the 
Foxglove, and flutter over the fragrant Mig- 
nonette. In truth, she was a luxurious little 
fairy as ever the sun shone upon. So much 
did she love her ease, that she would not 
even gather a dew-drop to bathe her face, 
or seek a fresh petal of the rose for a nap- 
kin. 

The queen of the fairies observed the 
faults of Papillon, and resolved to help her 
correct them. She summoned her one day, 



THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 131 

and ordered her to go to a cavern in Cey- 
lon, and there remain until she had fashioned 
a purer and more brilliant diamond, than had 
ever rested on the brow of mortal or fairy. 
Papillon bowed in silence, and withdrew ; 
but when she was out of the presence of the 
queen, she burst into a passionate flood of 
tears. " I shall have to w^atch that diamond 
months and months, and years and years," 
said she ; " and every day I must turn it 
over with my wand, that the crystals may 
all form even. O, it is an endless labour to 
make a diamond. O dear, I am a most 
wretched fairy." 

Thus she sat, and sobbed and murmured, 
for many minutes. Then she jumped up, 
and stamped her feet on the ground so furi- 
ously that the little blue-eyed grass trem- 
bled. " I won't bear it," she exclaimed ; " I 
will run away to the fairies of the air. I am 
sure they will glory in my beauty, and will- 
ingly be slaves to my pleasure. As for mak- 
ing a diamond, it is an impossible thing for 
such a little fairy as I am." As she looked 
up, she caught a glance of her image reflect- 
ed in a brook. She saw that the splendid 
green of her wings was changed, and that 
the silver spots were all dim ; for if the fai- 
ries indulge any evil passions, their wings 



132 THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 

always droop, and their beauty fades. At 
this sight, Papillon again wept aloud, with 
vexation and shame. " I suppose the tyrant 
thinks I won't go away in this plight," said 
she ; " but I will go, just to let her see that 
I don't care for her." As she spoke, the sil- 
ver spots disappeared entirely, and her wings 
became a deeper and dirtier brown. She 
waved her wand impatiently, and called, 

" Humming-bird, humming-bird, come nigh, come nigh, 
And carry me off to the far blue sky ! " 

In an instant, the bird was at her feet ; and 
she sprang upon his back, and they flew 
away to the golden clouds of the west, where 
the queen of the air fairies held her court. 
At her approach, the queen and all her train 
vanished ; for they saw by her garments 
that wicked feelings had been busy at her 
heart, and that she was in disgrace at home. 
Everything around her was beautiful. 
The clouds hung like transparent curtains 
of opal, and the floor was paved with frag- 
ments of rainbow. Thousands of gorgeous 
birds fluttered in the sunlight, and a multi- 
tude of voices filled the air with sweet 
sounds. Papillon, fatigued with the journey, 
and lulled by the music, fell into a gentle 
slumber. As she slept, she dreamed that a 



THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 133 

tiny bird, smaller even than the humming- 
bird, was building a nest beside her. Straw 
after straw, and shred after shred, the pa- 
tient little creature brought, and fitted into 
its place ; and then away she flew, far over 
the hills and fields, to bring a fresh supply. 
" She is a foolish little thing," muttered Pa- 
pillon. " How much labour she takes upon 
herself; and I don't believe she will ever 
get it done, after all." But the bird worked 
away diligently, and never stopped to think 
how long it would take her ; and very soon 
she finished a warm soft nest, fit for a fairy 
to sleep in. 

Papillon peeped into it, and exclaimed, 
" O, what a pretty thing ! " Immediately 
she heard the tinkling of a guitar, and a clear 
voice singing, 

" Little by little, the bird built her nest.'' 

She started up, and the queen of the air 
fairies stood before her, in a robe of azure 
gossamer, embroidered with the feathers of 
the butterfly. "Foolish Fairy," she said, 
" return to your own queen. We allow no 
idlers among us. Time and patience can 
accomplish all things. Go and make your 
diamond, and then you shall be welcome 
nere." Papillon wanted to urge how very 



134 THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 

long it took to make a diamond; but the 
queen flew away, touching her guitar, and 
singing, 

" Little by little, the bird built her nest." 

Papillon leaned her head upon her wand 
a few minutes. She began to be ashamed 
of being an indolent fairy ; and she felt half 
disposed to set about her appointed task 
cheerfully. She called the humming-bird 
and returned to earth. She alighted on the 
banks of " Bonnie Doon," close by the ver- 
dant little mound, where her offended queen 
resided. Near her, the bees were at work 
in a crystal hive. Weary and sad at heart, 
she watched them as they dipped into the 
flowers, to gather their little load of pollen. 
" I wish I loved to be industrious, as they 
do," thought she ; " but as for that diamond, 
it is in vain to think of it. I should never 
get it done." 

Then a delightful strain of music came 
from within the mound, and she heard a cho- 
rus of voices singing, 

" Grain by grain, the bee builds her cell." 

Papillon could have wept when she heard 
those familiar voices ; for she longed to be 
at home, dancing on the green sward with 
her sister fairies. " I will make the diamond," 



THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 135 

murmured she : " I shall get it done some 
time or other ; and I can fly home every 
night to join in the dance, and sleep among 
the flowers." 

Immediately a joyful strain of music rose 
on the air, and she heard well-remembered 
voices singing, 

" Welcome sister, welcome home I 
Soon the appointed task is done." 

Alas, bad habits are not easily cured. 
Papillon began to think how hard she should 
have to work, and how many times she must 
turn the crystals, and how far she must fly 
to join her companions in the dance. " I 
never can do it," said she. " I will go to 
the queen of the ocean fairies, and see if her 
service is not easier." 

Mournful notes came from within the 
mound, as Papillon turned toward the sea 
shore ; but she kept on her wayward course. 
When she came to the beach, she waved her 
wand thrice, saying, 

"Arg^onaut! Argonaut! come to me, 
And carry me through the cold green sea." 

The delicate little pearly boat of the argo- 
naut, or paper-nautilus, floated along the 
ocean, and a moment after, a wave landed it 
at her feet. And down, down they went into 



136 THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 

a coral grove, among the lone islands of the 
Pacific. Magnificent was the palace of the 
ocean queen ! Coral pillars were twisted 
into a thousand beautiful forms ; pearls hung 
in deep festoons among the arches ; the fan- 
coral and the sea-moss were formed into coo 
deep bowers ; and the hard sandy floor was 
tesselated with many-coloured shells. 

But as it had been in the air, so was it in 
the ocean. The palace was deserted at the 
approach of the stranger. " O, how beauti- 
ful is all this !" exclaimed Papillon. " How 
much more beautiful than our queen's flow- 
ery arbour. The giants must have made 
these pillars." As she spoke, her eyes were 
nearly blinded by a swarm of almost invisi- 
ble insects ; and she saw them rest on a half- 
finished coral pillar, at a little distance. 
While she looked and wondered, there was 
a sound as of many Tritons blowing their 
horns, and she heard the chorus, 

" Mite by mite, the insect builds our coral bower." 

The sounds came nearer and nearer, and 
a hundred fairies, floating on beautiful shells, 
drew nigh. At their head was the queen, 
clothed in a full robe of wave-coloured 
silk, spun by Pinna, the Ocean Silk-worm. 
It was as thin as the spider's web, and the 



THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 131 

border was gracefully wrought with the 
smallest of seed pearls. " Foolish Papil- 
lon, learn to be industrious," she said. " We 
allow no idlers about our court. Look at 
the pillars of my palace. They were made 
by creatures smaller than yourself. Labour 
and patience did it all." 

She waved her wand, and the hundred 
shells floated away ; and ever and anon the 
fairies sang in full chorus, 

*' Mite by mite, the insect builds our coral bower." 

" Well," said Papillon, sighing, " all crea- 
tures are busy, on the earth, in the air, and 
in the water. All things seem to be happy 
at their work ; perhaps I can learn to be so. 
I will make the diamond ; and it shall be as 
brilliant and pure as a sunbeam in a water 
drop." 

Papillon sought the deep caverns of Cey- 
lon. Day by day, she worked as busily as 
the coral insect. She grew cheerful and 
happy ; her green wings resumed their lus- 
tre, and the silver spots became so bright 
that they seemed like sparks of fire. Nevci 
had she been so beautiful, never half so much 
beloved. 

After several years had passed away, 
Papillon knelt at the feet of the queen and 

m 



13S 



THE INDOLENT FAIRY. 



offered her diamond. It was brilliant be- 
yond anything the earth had ever produced. 
It gave Hght like a star, and the whole palace 
shone with its rays. To this day, the fairies 
call it Papillon's diamond. 




LITTLE BIRD ! LITTLE BIRD ! 




ITTLE bird! little bird! come to 



Here is a green cage hung on the 
tree. 

Beauty-bright flowers I'll bring to you, 
And fresh ripe cherries, all wet with dew. 

Thanks, little maiden, for all thy care; 
But I dearly love the free broad air; 
And ray snug little nest in the old. oak tree 
Is better than golden cage for me. 

Little bird ! little bird ! where wilt thou go, 
When the fields are all buried in snow? 
The ice will cover your old oak tree ; 
You had better come and stay with me. 



{40 



LITTLE BIRdI LITTLE BIRD ! 



Nay, little maiden, away I'll fly 
To greener fields and a warmer sky. 
When Spring returns with pattering rain, 
You will hear my merry song again. 

Little bird ! little bird ! who'll guide thee 
Over the hills and over the sea ] 
Foolish one, come in the house to stay, 
For I'm very sure you'll lose your way 

A.h no, little maiden ! God guides me 
Over the hills and over the sea. 
I will be free as the rushing air, 
Chasing the sunhght everywhere. 




^fcl-^i/ 



THE DEAF AND DUMB 




r 



■N old times, those who 
were so unfortunate as 
not to be able to speak 
or hear, had no means of in- 
struction. They grew up 
and died, without being able 
to write their thoughts, or to 
read pleasant books. But of late years, the 
power of teaching them by signs has been 
carried to such perfection, that they can read 
and write perfectly well. Institutions for 
their instruction are now established in near- 
ly all Christian countries. The best in this 
country is at Hartford, Connecticut. It is a 
most beautiful sight to see these unfortunate 
children striving so eagerly to receive ideas 
through their imperfect senses, and to express 
them by means of a language they have 
never heard spoken. 

The pupils in the Deaf and Dumb School 



142 THE DEAF AND DUMB. 

at Exeter, England, lately wrote and printed 
a little book, which they dedicated to their 
teacher. One Httle boy, named John Wil- 
ton, writes to her thus, " Dearest Madam, I 
and my dear school-fellows desire to put 
your great name in this little book to give to 
you. We all love you; because you thought 
about us in our young life, and built this 
house for us, with your many friends. We 
look at this beautiful place, and we think of 
you, and we think of our ignorance, and 
loneliness, and unhappiness, before we came 
here ; and we say we truly love you, and 
your name is in our hearts and in our minds, 
and your face is confirmed to us. You 
knew mc in my little years, and I was at 
your house for teaching ; but some of my 
school-fellows did not see you before, but 
they sign to me that they are grateful, as I 
am, to you. We pray much for you. Do 
you like us to pray for you ?" 

The volume is composed of short religious 
pieces, written by several deaf and dumb 
boys ; but the most beautiful spirit among 
them all is named Hugh Coyle. He writes: 
"O, my God, thou knowest I have no hatred 
to men. I would not have revenge to any. 
But, O, my Father, when any one teases me, 
my heart is hot with passion, and my face 



THE DEAF AND DUMB. 143 

IS red, and my eyes are bright to anger. 
Bat I will not beat him. I will not slander 
about him. I will not keep malice against 
him ; because I suffer for my Jesus Christ. 
I try to suppress evil passions like him. I 
endeavour to bear tribulation with noble 
mind. But, O my Father, I tell thee it is 
hard to know well about this, because I am 
ignorant. O my God, I am humble in thy 
sight, because I know I am imperfect m my 
all. I feel sin is dull to me. It has no 
pretty thoughts, and no peace. I have look- 
ed at the new bird in the cage, and it was 
uneasy, and it disliked the prison. It would 
fly away in the pure air to the high tree. 
Sin is like a cage to me, because it makes 
my mind unhappy and heavy. I every day 
pray thee to pardon me, because every day 
I do sin in thy sight, O my Father. I be- 
lieve that prayer prevails with thee, and I 
am at rest in my heart. I know I often ask 
what is not proper for me ; but thou refusest 
to give me, because thou art merciful and 
wise. I ask much money of thee, because 
I think to be charitable to poor men ; but 
thou givcst me no great money ; for thou 
knowest it would make me proud, and vain, 
and indolent. Thou givest me all things 
better tlian money. Thou givest me patience. 



144 THE DEAF AND DUMB. 

Thou givest me thirst for knowledge. Thou 
givest me cheerfulness in my religion. Thou 
givest me trust in my Jesus Christ. Thou 
givest me charity in heart that makes me 
pray to thee for others ; and I am happy 
with all thy doings to me. My heart sings 
to thee. 1 choose pretty words in mind for 
thee. I have great names for thee in my 
heart. I love to hold converse with thee ; 
and I sometimes weep to thee, O my Father. 
" My father-man is gone from me, O God ; 
and I am my own one Hugh Coyle in the 
world. I am poor in my clothes, and I am 
like a little tree in the far wide field. But J 
see thou givest trees new dresses ; and I 
see thou makest men kind to thy little birds 
and pretty animals ; and I know thou wilt 
make men friends to me, and kind to me ; 
because thou art happy to love me, and see 
me pray, O my Father." 



LOUISA PKESTON. 




LOUISA Preston was the 
daughter of a poor wid- 
ow, who lived in Boston. 
Her father was an English- 
man. He came to Ameri- 
ca because he could not 
earn a living in his native 
land. In this country he found employment 
and good wages, but he always continued 
poor because he had a large family of chil- 
dren to support, and his wife had very slen- 
der health. When his daughter Louisa was 
about ten years old, he died, and his widow 
was obliged to take in washing to support 
the family. At this trying period, Louisa, 
young as she was, was a great help and con- 
solation to her mother. She brought water, 
hung out the clothes, washed the hearth, 
and tended her baby sister, till it seemed as 
if her arms would break. Besides all this, 
n 10 



MY SISTER MARY. 147 

How I should cry if she were gone! 
I could not dress my doll alone. 
Therefore, dear uncle, I do pray 
You will not make her go away. 
Good cousin Jane may live with you; 
She has no little sister Loo. 
You may give her the bright Canary, 
And let me keep dear sister Mary. 
I'm very sure she will not go 
From little Loo who loves her so 

UNCLE. 

Now blessings on your gentle heart! 
I should be loth to see ye part. 
You need not cling to her in fear; 
You shall not lose your playmate, dear. 
My words were merely meant to prove 
How dearly you your sister love. 
I will give her tke bright Canary, 
And she shall be your sister Mary 



d,l 10 




148 LOUISA PRESTON. 

sometimes vented their evil feelings by laugh- 
ing at her dress. 

" Well, Miss Creak-shoes, I hope you are 
easy, now you've got up to the head again," 
said Hannah White. 

" I should be ashamed to stand at the head, 
if I had such a coarse, short gown as yours," 
said Harriet May. 

" It is the best my mother can afford," an- 
swered Louisa, meekly. 

" Then I'd stay at home and help her 
wash," said Hannah White. 

Some of the girls laughed, as if they 
thought there was disgrace in having a poor, 
industrious mother. Louisa blushed pain- 
fully, and their laugh went through her heart 
like a dagger. For a moment, she felt 
ashamed of being a washerwoman's daugh- 
ter. She turned round suddenly, and came 
very near saying some angry things to Han- 
nah White. But the good girl had learned 
to govern her temper. The flush on her 
cheeks died away, and the tears came to 
her eyes ; but she spoke not a word. When 
children do unkind things, it is more from 
thoughtlessness than cruelty of heart. Lou- 
isa's tearful eyes at once made all the little 
girls feel sorry. 

" I am sure I did not mean any harm by 



LOUISA PRESTON. 149 

iaughing/* said one. " I should be ashamea 
if I were you, Hannah White," said another ; 
" for you know there never was a better girl 
than Louisa." 

" We did not mean to hurt your feelings," 
said a third. " We did not think what we 
were doing, when we laughed. We could 
not love you better, if you wore a silk 
gown." 

Louisa was comforted by these expres- 
sions ; but she was mortified and grieved, 
and she did not return home as light-hearted 
as usual. 

When she entered their httle dark room, 
she found her mother at the wash-tub, look- 
ing very pale and tired. *' Here is Loolly, 
dear," said she to little Mary, who was so 
busy scrubbing doll-rags in a little wooden 
bowl, that she did not notice her sister's en- 
trance. " Oh, Loolly ! Loolly !" shouted the 
httle one ; and her voice sounded merry as 
a Christmas bell. Her mother smiled, and 
looked affectionately on her oldest daughter, 
as she said, "Oh, Louisa, how could we get 
along without you? You are the best child 
that ever lived ; and God will bless you for 
your kindness to your poor mother." 

Louisa's heart was too full to bear this 
She threw her arms round her mother's 



150 LOUISA PRESTON. 

neck, and burst into tears. " What is the 
matter?" asked her mother. "Nothing," 
she replied ; " at least, nothing that I can 
tell." When urged to keep none of her 
trouble? secret from her mother, she answer- 
ed, " I would tell you, certainly I would, if 
it were right ; but the girls at school said 
something to me that hurt my feelings very 
much ; and it is not proper for me to tell 
you w^hat it was " 

Her mother diet not urge her. She knew 
Louisa was a girl to be trusted, and she sus- 
pected that some allusion had been made to 
her poor dress, which she, with genuine deli- 
cacy, had forborne to mention. 

Louisa persuaded her mother to sit down 
and dry her feet, while she hung out the 
clothes, wa,shed the room, put John and 
Mary to bed, and made a cup of hot tea. 
While she was busily engaged in perform- 
ing these kind offices, her mother often look- 
ed upon her with an expression of love, 
which seemed to say she had nothing else 
in the wide woi-ld to lean upon, but her. 
Louisa understood the language of her face, 
and it filled her with self-reproach. She 
asked her own heart, " How could I, for one 
moment, feel ashamed of that good mother, 
who has always loved me ; who took care 



LOUISA PRESTON. 151 

of me when I was a babe ; who has toiled 
many a time when she was ill herself, in 
order to make me comfortable ? I am proud 
of my mother for her goodness, her industry, 
and her self-denial. How could I have such 
wrong feelings, on account of anything those 
thoughtless girls could say?" 

Most gh'ls of her age would not have been 
so much troubled because they had been for 
a few moments ashamed that their mothers 
were poor hard-working women ; but Lou- 
isa had a very tender conscience, and she 
knew that such pride was not pleasing in 
the eyes of her Heavenly Father. Before 
she went to bed that night, she prayed ear- 
nestly that such feelings might never again 
come into her heart ; and the sleep of the 
good child was sweet and refreshing. 

In the morning, her mother said, " Louisa, 
dear, I do not like to keep you a moment 
from school ; but Mrs. White's bundle of 
clothes is too heavy for John, and I have 
nobody but you to carry it." 

Louisa's face crimsoned for a moment. It 
was only the day before that Hannah White 
had ridiculed her for being a washerwoman's 
daughter. She could not bear to carry the 
clotFies home, when she was likely to meet 
her on the way to school ; but she remem- 



152 LOUISA PRESTON. 

bered how wretched such thoughts had made 
her the day before ; and she answered, with 
one of her sweetest smiles, " I can go just as 
well as not, mother. I shall get to school in 
good season, if I walk quick." 

Her mother thanked her ; and with a large 
bundle in one hand, and book and atlas in 
the other, she left home with an approving 
conscience, and a light heart. She met 
several of her companions on the way, and 
she thought some of them looked as if they 
pitied her ; but she did not let that trouble 
her. When she reached school, she found 
that her class had just risen to recite. Her 
heart beat violently, lor she was anxious not 
to make any mistake, and she had not had 
time to review her lesson. She could not 
answer the second question that was asked 
her ; she lost her place at the head, and 
when recitation was finished, Hannah White 
remained above her. 

Hannah looked triumphant, and poor 
Louisa found bad feelings again rising up in 
her heart. She tried to crowd them back ; 
but, overcome with many temptations and 
troubles, she burst into tears. The instructor 
supposed all her grief was occasioned by 
losing her place in the class. He felt ex- 
ceedingly sorry for her, because he knew 



LOUISA PRESTON. 153 

there must be some very good reason why 
she had neglected her lesson. He did not 
say anything, however, for he disliked to 
call upon her the attention of the whole 
school. But, by way of exciting her hopes, 
he mentioned that a committee of gentlemen 
would visit them in a few days, and that one 
of them had proposed to give a handsome 
copy of Miss Edgeworth's Moral Tales, and 
one year's education at the best school in 
the city, to the young lady who should, at 
the end of eight weeks, evince the most 
thorough knowledge of ancient and modern 
geography. All Louisa's class felt sure that 
she would get the prize ; and next to being 
successful themselves, they wished her to be. 
Hannah White and Harriet May were the 
two next best scholars in school, and they 
resolved in their own minds that they would 
be victorious, if studying would make them 
so. Not that they cared about the year's 
schooling ; for their parents were pretty 
rich ; but it was an honour, which they 
thought worth trying for. Louisa knew 
they were the only competitors she had to 
fear ; and she was conscious it would cost 
her an effort not to be jealous of them. Han- 
nah White was not a bad-hearted girl, but 
she had pert, unpleasant manners. During 



154 LOUISA PRESTON. 

recess that day, she said many sneering 
things, which made Louisa feel unhappy, in 
spite of herself More than one little girl 
said, "If I were Louisa Preston, I'd never 
speak to Hannah White again." 

The young lady who had told Harriet 
May and Hannah White that they ought to 
be ashamed of themselves, for laughing at 
Louisa's coarse gown, was named Emily 
Minot. She now came up to Louisa very 
kindly, and putting her arm within hers, of- 
fered her half the orange she was eating. 
She was a kind girl, but wild and thought- 
less, and very fond of fun. When they 
again went into school, she amused herself 
by cutting figures in paper, and holding them 
up for the entertainment of her companions. 
One of these figures was so very ridiculous, 
that all who saw it burst into an uncon- 
strained laugh. The instructer looked up 
surprised ; but every face was sobered, and 
intent upon a book. A few minutes elapsed, 
and a tittering laugh was again heard 
throughout the school-room. The teacher 
was displeased with such conduct, and in- 
sisted upon knowing the cause. No one 
was willing to tell. Emily Minot, fearing 
.hat search would be made, hastily pushed 
the papers out of the way, and sat as de- 



LOUISA PRESTON. 155 

mure as a kitten. Some of the papers fell 
on the floor, and others were found in Han- 
nah White's desk ; and as she was very apt 
to be roguish, the teacher concluded that she 
was the culprit. He requested her to leave 
her seat and stand beside his desk, till he 
could decide what course to pursue with a 
young lady, who spent her time in disturb- 
ing school. She again and again declared 
that she had not cut the papers, or shown 
them ; but the teacher knew she did not 
always tell the exact truth, and he did not 
quite trust her. As she was not a favourite 
in school, and Emily Minot was, no one 
liked to step forward and vindicate her. 
Trembling and blushing, with her eyes full 
of tears, Hannah prepared to obey the or- 
ders she had received ; but Louisa Preston 
rose, and in a modest but firm tone, said, 
" Hannah is not to blame, sir ; she only 
laughed, and we all did that." " Who then 
has done the mischief?" Louisa was silent, 
and hung down her head. Emily Minot 
had been so kind to her, and had always 
been so ready to take her part when the 
other girls vexed her, that she could not 
bear to bring her into trouble, though she 
knew very well that she deserved it. The 
teacher began to grow impatient at having 



156 LOUISA PRESTON. 

the school interrupted by such delay. " Very 
well, Louisa," said he, "if you know who 
the culprit is, and will not tell, you must take 
her place yourself.'^ The poor girl was 
much frightened. She was very bashful, 
and the idea of having the eyes of all the 
scholars fixed upon her was extremely pain- 
ful. She glanced timidly round the room, 
but no one dared to look up at her. She re- 
membered how Emilv Minot had taken her 
arm, and given her half an orange that morn- 
ing ; and with a beating heart she left her 
seat and stood beside the instructer's desk. 
There was silence throughout the school. 
Emily Minot was grieved and ashamed. 
She trembled violently; and when the teach- 
er placed the ridiculous paper figures in 
Louisa's hand, and told her to hold them up 
as high as she could reach, until he gave her 
leave to lower her arm, Emily burst into 
tears, and said, " It was I who did it." 

The instructer was rejoiced to find so 
much good and generous feehng among his 
pupils. After expressing his extreme un- 
willingness ever to resort to punishment of 
any kind, he urged upon them the necessity 
of preserving good order in school, and de* 
clared his readiness to forgive the offender. 
The adventures of that day were long re* 



LOUISA PRESTON. 157 

membered by all the scholars, and helped to 
make them wiser and better girls. Hannah 
White's good feelings were touched by 
Louisa's disinterested vindication. She was 
conscious that she had not deserved it at 
her hands. From that period, her character 
and manners began to change. She was 
always kind and polite to her playmates, and 
particularly so to Louisa. Thus may evil 
always be overcome with good. 

A day or two after this affair, she whis- 
pered to Louisa, as they left school together, 
" My mother told me to ask you to spend 
next Saturday at our house. She says it 
will particularly oblige her, and you must 
not fail to come." Louisa was very much 
surprised, and so was her mother, when she 
heard of the invitation ; but they both thought 
it would be proper and polite to go. 

Mrs. White received her young visiter 
very affectionately. She told her that what 
she heard of her character and conduct, both 
at home and at school, made her very desi- 
rous to assist her. She gave her a good 
supply of neat clothing, and interested seve- 
ral ladies in behalf of her good mother. Mrs. 
Preston no longer suffered from extreme 
poverty. She was constantly employed by 
ladies, who did not think it right to pay poor 



158 LOUISA PRESTON. 

Women poor prices for their work. She was 
grateful to her Heavenly Father for having 
sent her such a daughter ; and often, and oft- 
en, when they had knelt and prayed togeth- 
er, before retiring for the night, she would 
put her hands affectionately on Louisa's fore- 
head, and say, "I always thought you would 
bring blessings to us all. You were always 
such a good girl." At such moments, Louisa 
rejoiced that she was a washerwoman's daugh 
ter ; it gave her the means of being so help- 
ful, and of living for others rather than herself. 

This was a sunny time in the good girl's 
life. She was useful and beloved at home, 
and at school she went on improving and 
gaining friends every day. Her progress in 
geography surprised even her teacher, though 
he expected much from her intelligence and 
industry. There seemed to be no doubt that 
she would win the prize. 

Little Mary knew nothing about this good 
luck. She had always loved her sister as 
well as ever she could, and she could not 
love her better now. One day, when Louisa, 
as usual, kissed her and bade her good-bye, 
before she went to school, the little pet took 
hold of her gown, and said, in her most coax- 
ing tones, " Loolly stay wi' Mary 1 Loolly 
stay wi' Mary !" 



LOUISA PRESTON. 159 

" I can't stay," replied Louisa : " I must go 
to school now ; but by and bye Loolly will 
come back to see dear little Mary." The 
child sighed, and still keeping hold of her 
gown, said, in her artless, prattling way, 
" Mary love Loolly. Don't Loolly go." 
Louisa's heart was so much touched by these 
simple signs of love from her little favourite 
that she found it very hard to leave her 
But it was quite school time, and after put- 
ting the hair nicely out of her eyes, and kiss- 
ing her pretty white forehead, she ran away. 
She stopped a moment in the road, to look 
back and shake her satchel playfully at her 
as she stood peeping out of the door. 

With a light and happy heart, she went 
into school. Among all the rich and in- 
dulged little ladies in town, not one could 
be found that day so happy as Louisa Pres- 
ton. She had been in school two hours, 
when a boy came running in out of breath, 
exclaiming, " Mary is burned to death 1" 
Louisa became as pale as chalk, and her 
limbs trembled so, that she could hardly 
move. At first, it seemed as if she would 
faint away ; but she summoned her strength 
instantly, and flew out like an arrow. She 
hardly knew she had left the school-room 
till she found herself at her mother's bed-side. 



160 LOUISA PRESTON. 

Oh, what a sight was there ! It was enough 
to break her heart to look upon it Mary 
was not dead, but she was burned so badly, 
that Louisa could hardly distinguish anything 
in the shape of a face, where she had that 
morning kissed the prettiest features and the 
fairest skin, that ever belonged to a little 
child. Her tongue, which had uttered such 
sweet sounds that morning, was now useless. 
She could not speak. The doctor said she 
would never speak more ; and Louisa knew 
that she should never again see the loving 
expression of her beautiful eyes. It was 
very hard to bear. The heart of the affec- 
tionate sister ached so, that she could not 
weep. Sometimes, indeed, the tears would 
come, when the little sufferer tried to nestle 
close up to her cheek, or made a moaning 
noise, if the supporting arm was withdrawn 
from her head. Mary lingered three weeks, 
in great pain. During all that time, she was 
not willing that her beloved sister should 
leave her even for a moment. It was not 
until she had repeated half a dozen times 
over, "Loolly will come back again," that 
she could get away from the bed-side. The 
poor little creature could not answer ; she 
could not even smile. But her sister knew 
very well, by the patient manner in which 



LOUISA PRESTON. 16) 

she withdrew her hand, that she was wilhng 
she should go ; and when she returned, the 
eagerness with which the Uttle hand moved 
toward her, spoke whole volumes of love. 

At last, Louisa's long and painful service 
ended. Little Mary died. Her body was 
buried in the ground, and angels came to 
carry her gentle little soul home to her 
Heavenly Father. 

Louisa did not weep bitterly. She had 
seen her little darling suffer so much, that 
she did not wish her to linger any longer 
in such dreadful pain. Sometimes, indeed, 
when she remembered how Mary had tried 
to coax her to stay at home from school, she 
would think to herself, " Ah, if I had only 
been at home, while mother was hanging out 
the clothes, the poor little thing would not 
have played with the fire." But she did not 
say this ; for she knew no one was to blame, 
and that it would only make her mother's 
heart ache. It was a comfort to hear the 
bereaved parent say, " Louisa, what should 
I have done through this dreadful trial, if it 
had not been for you, and the friends you 
have raised up for me ?" Then she still had 
her brother John to love. He had left liis 
boyish noisy sports, during little Mary's ill* 
ness, and seemed to pity his good mothe 

o 11 



162 LOUISA PRESTON. 

and sister with all his soul. Sorrow softens 
the heart, and makes it pitiful. After John 
saw the body of his merry little sister laid 
down and covered up in the ground, he be- 
came more gentle, affectionate, and thought- 
ful. 

When Louisa recovered from her extreme 
fatigue, she began to think about school. Her 
mother was too much worn out to be left alone ; 
and for another fortnight, the diligent girl 
could scarcely find an hour a day to study 
the maps she was so eager to learn. At last, 
with a long-drawn sigh, she gave up all 
hopes of getting the prize. She did not let 
her mother know that it made her unhappy ; 
for she knew that when she made a sacrifice 
for another, it was very unkind and selfish to 
complain of it. But it is pleasant to have 
some one to whom we can speak of what 
troubles us. John was very young, and had 
heretofore been a remarkably heedless boy; 
but he was more sober and attentive now, 
and she knew that he would feel interested 
for her. Sometimes, when their mother was 
asleep, she would talk with him about the 
prize. " I do not care so much about losing 
the books," said she ; " though I dearly love 
to read. But I did hope I could go to a pri* 
vate school for one year. I think I could bo 



LOUISA PRESTON. 163 

fitted for a teacher myself, if I could only do 
that." John sympathised in all her wishes 
and plans. It made him feel like a man, to 
have his elder sister confide in him. In his 
homely way, he would answer, "Now, Loui- 
sa, rd give all my old shoes, if you could get 
that prize. Why won't you go to school, 
and let me stay at home and take care of 
mother V " I should not hke to have her 
know how much I want to go," replied 
Louisa ; " besides you know you couldn't 
do the mending mother has taken in." " I 
can carry it home, and tell the folks that we 
can't do it," said John. "But mother needs 
the money, and cannot get it, without I earn 
it for her," rejoined his thoughtful sister. 
" Mrs. White wilj give us some money, if 
you go and tell her that mother is sick." 
" No, no, John, I will never beg, so long as 
I can work," said Louisa : " other people 
ought not to help us, without we try to help 
ourselves." "I have heard mother say a 
hundred times," replied her brother, " that 
all the friends raised up for her lately were 
owing to your being so industrious and good. 
I suppose that is the way to make friends, 
and keep them, too ; and I mean to try to 
6e industrious and good." Louisa kissed 
him, and told him she would try to earn 



164 LOUISA PRESTON. 

money enough to put him to a good school, 
and that she hoped to hve to see him a great 
support and blessing to their good mother, 
when she was too old and infirm to support 
herself. Such conversation sobered the boy, 
and made him, Uke Louisa, older in charac- 
ter than he was in years. 

At the end of two weeks, Mrs. Preston 
was so much better, that she could get 
through her work very comfortably with 
Johns assistance. Louisa, who had studied 
every minute she could get, had still some 
faint hopes of receiving the prize. When 
she again took her accustomed seat at school, 
Hannah White and Harriet May were a 
little uneasy. They had supposed she would 
not be able to come again, before the prize 
was given, and they had not studied quite so 
hard as they otherwise would have done. 
However, they gave her a cordial welcome, 
and all the scholars said they were glad to 
see her back again. Her example had taught 
them to be ambitious of excellence, yet be at 
the same time amiable and disinterested. A 
generous heart never dislikes a friend or 
companion because she excels. It is only 
bad and mean dispositions that cannot love a 
rival. 

The three girls felt willing that it should 



LOUISA PRESTON. 165 

be a fair trial of scholarship and industry 
They talked together about it, and though 
each said she hoped to gain the prize herself 
they all promised to feel pleasantly toward 
whoever gained it. To have rivals in her 
class at school is sometimes a great trial to a 
little girl's disposition and temper ; but the 
only way to be really good is to resist and 
overcome all temptation to be selfish. 

It was soon evident that Louisa had well 
employed what little time she had been able 
to command during her mother's illness. 
The instructer thought that her chance was 
at least equal to that of any of her class- 
mates. At last the important day arrived. 
The committee and several visiters came to 
examine the school. They were well pleased 
with the young ladies in general ; but 
Louisa's neat appearance, her modest, win- 
ning ways, and the facility with which she 
answered the most difficult questions address- 
ed to her, soon made the committee think 
that it would be a very pleasant thing to 
give her the prize. The trial between the 
three best scholars was, however, very 
equal. Toward the close of the examina- 
tion, Harriet May missed two questions, and 
was thus thrown out of the list. The scho 
lars now watched Hannah White and Louisa 



166 LOUISA PRESTON. 

Preston with great eagerness. At last, Louisa 
found herself unable to answer a question, 
and it was passed to her rival, who gave a 
very prompt and correct reply. Louisa's 
hopes had been very highly excited, and now 
she was so disappointed that her heart seem- 
ed to stop its movement all at once, like a 
watch when its spring is broken. But this 
good girl had made such use of afflictions 
and temptations, as our Heavenly Father in- 
tends we should. They had made her more 
humble and more wise. In a moment the 
painful feeling went away, and she looked 
up and smiled sweetly in Hannah's face, as 
if she sincerely wished her joy. 

iJannah White bore her victory very 
meekly. When the volumes were bestowed 
upon her, with high praises of her scholar- 
ship, she blushed, and said, "I am sure I 
should not have gained the prize, if Louisa 
Preston had not been obliged to stay at home 
five weeks, to nurse her sick mother and 
sister." The tears came into Louisa's eyes, 
as she thanked her generous rival with a 
beaming glance of gratitude and love. 

The committee were highly pleased. — 
" Young ladies," said one of them, " this ex- 
pression of mutual good feeling is far more 
honourable to you, than any literary prize 



LOUISA PRESTON. 167 

you can ever gain. Your wnole conduct 
meets with our entire approbation ; and since 
your recitations have been so nearly equal, 
we shall give you both equal prizes." 

Hannah White was never so happy in her 
life, as she was that dav. She found there 
was nothing half so pleasant as being good; 
no victory half so delightful as the victory 
over one's own selfishness. 

" It was very kind of you to speak so of 
me," said Louisa, putting her arm round her 
friend's neck, and kissing her affectionately, 
as they were about to leave school together. 

" If I am better than I used to be, it is you 
who have taught me," replied Hannah, 

The friendship thus begun, continued 
through life. The girls afterward went to 
the same school, and both obtained a hand- 
some medal the day they left it. 

When Louisa was sixteen she began to 
teach school ; and she gained the affections 
of her pupils as rapidly as she had formerly 
gained that of her playmates. Mrs. White's 
family assisted her in every way they could. 
By their Iriendly influence, united to her own 
exertions, she was enabled to give her bro- 
ther John an excellent education. When 
Louisa playfully reminded him that she had 
told him, when he was a little boy, that ha 



168 LOUISA PRESTON. 

would be a support and comfort to their 
aged mother, he answered, with an affection- 
ate smile, " You, my good sister, have made 
a man of me." 

There is no Louisa Preston now. When 
she was twenty-two years old, she married 
Hannah White's brother. Her husband used 
to say, " No doubt Louisa was a great bless- 
ing to her mother and brother ; but she is a 
greater blessing to me." 

Louisa has a little daughter, whom she 
named for her darling sister Mary. She is 
a pretty, fat little cherub, just beginning to 
talk a little. She looks up in her mother's 
face very sweetly, and lisps out, " Ma-my 
love mamma." Sometimes her mother 
catches her up, and half smothers her with 
kisses, as she says, " I do wish the dear 
little lamb would learn to say, ' Mary loves 
LooUy.'" 




LIFE IN THE OCEAN 



** The floor is of sand, like the mountain's drift, 

And the pearl-shells apangle the flinty snow ; 
From coral rocks th-e sea-pknts lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow. 
' There, with a light and easy motion, 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea, 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea." 

John. Aunt Maria, did you say that co 
ral was an animal ? 

Aunt Maria. It is supposed to be a col 
lection of the shells of small marine animals 
joined together by a stony cement, 

John, What kind of animal can it be tha* 
lives in such a manner ? 

Aunt Maria, A very singular class call 
ed Zoophytes, from tv^o Greek v^'-ords, which 
signify a plant-animal. They are so called, 
because they seem in some respects to be 
like vegetables, and in others like animals. 
There are several varieties of them. The 
sponges, the corallines, the star-fish, and the 
sea-anemone, belong to this singular class. 

P 



170 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

The Sea- Anemone is so called from its sin- 
gular resemblance to a flower, both in its 
shape, and the bright variety of its colours. 
This animal-flower is usually fastened at one 
extremity to rocks, or stones in the sand. 
At the other extremity, the claws are ar- 
ranged in circles, which give it the appear- 
ance of a blossom. They open and shut 
these claws, to obtain food. They are very 
greedy, and will swallow a muscle or a crab 
as large as a hen's egg. That class of zoo- 
phytes which are stony, like coral, are 
called lithophytes, from two Greek words 
meaning stone-plant. The lithophytes can- 
not build above the level of the sea ; nor do 
they ever build so high as to be left uncov- 
ered with water, when the tide is lowest. 

John, But I have read in books of voya- 
ges about coral reefs being seen above the 
ocean. 

Aunt Maria, They are frequently seen; 
because the hot sun of the tropics often cracks 
the coral, and causes large branches to break 
oflT; and these branches float on the tide, 
and are often lodged on the top of the reefs, 
and become entangled there. Then the wind 
wafts the sand into the crevices, and floating 
sea- weed lodges there and decays. After a 
while, the birds drop seeds, which take root 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 171 

and grow, and blossom, and go to seed, and 
die. Thus a soil is slowly formed, and 
grasses and shrubs grow, and the birds come 
and lay eggs there, and insects float thither 
on pieces of wood, which have drifted thou- 
sands of miles, and the coral reef becomes 
an island ; then the islands get joined to- 
gether by coral reefs growing up between 
them, and thus become continents. It is 
believed that a new continent is now being 
formed, extending from New-Zealand to the 
Sandwich Islands. If another continent is 
thus added to the world, we may thank the 
zoophytes and the birds, for having done 
their masonry and gardening so well. 

John, It is wonderful to think of such a 
little creature's building continents! How 
do we know that North and South America 
is not a huge bridge, built on coral piers ? 
Perhaps the industrious zoophytes, as you 
call them, had been at work on them for 
a thousand years, before Christopher Co- 
lumbus thought of sailing in search of the 
new world. 

Aunt Maria. Very likely it was so. Di- 
vine wisdom is constantly carrying on im- 
mense works by the most insignificant agents. 
We short-sighted mortals know nothing of 
the magnificent design, until we see it com* 



172 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

ing into its final form. In the Pacific Ocean 
and the South Seas, one can observe the 
gradual formation of islands and continents. 
The growth of coral in those seas is prodi- 
gious ; and what is singular, it is almost al- 
ways in a circular, or half-circular shape. 

John. I remember reading in a book that 
in old times people thought mushrooms grew 
in rings, because fairies had danced there in 
a circle, and mushrooms sprung up all round 
their path. 

Aunt Maria. You know the Irish tell 
many stories of a kind of sea-fairies, which 
they call morrows. It is just as hkely that 
coral grows up where they dance in circles 
in the water. At any event, there is beauty 
enough to be the work of fairies. In some 
of these crescent-shaped islands, you see a 
rim of coral running out into the deep, un- 
fathomable sea, covered with tufts of Palm, 
Cocoa, and Bread-Fruit trees. The tropical 
seas, near the shore, are of the clearest and 
most brilliant green. When the sun shines 
on it, the graceful branches of white coral 
may be seen deep down through the emerald 
waters, interspersed with sponges, sea-moss, 
coralline fans, leaves, and plumes, with co- 
lours as various and brilliant as a tulip-bed. 
They wave about in the water, like flowers 



N LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 173 

blown by the wind, and great herds of fish 
may be seen down in the green depths, 
browsing on the coraUines, hke cattle in a 
pasture. 

John. That must be a beautiful sight ! 
How I should like to go down there. But 
what makes those coral leaves, and long 
branches, like feathers ? 

Aunt Maria. They are supposed to be 
marine plants, on which the insects have 
built, till all the veins are completely covered 
with the stony substance they deposit. 

John. A sailor once showed me a piece 
of wood all covered with little hard shells* 
He said the entire bottom of a vessel was 
sometimes covered with them. 

Aunt Maria. That is a small creature, 
that lives in what is called the sea-acorn, or 
the acorn-shell. The sailors call them bar- 
nacles. They fasten themselves to rocks, 
stones, and even to marine animals. On the 
beach, you will often find pebbles so covered 
with them, that they look like stone-honey- 
comb. These parasites fasten on vessels in 
such numbers, that they are sometimes ob- 
liged to turn ships bottom upward and 
scrape them off. 

John. What do you call them parasites 
for ? 



174 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

Aunt Maria, When a person flatters a 
rich man, or a powerful man, and keeps 
about him all the thxie, in hopes of getting 
something, and will not go away, though he 
knows his company is disagreeable, he is 
called a parasite. There are some plants 
which fasten their roots into the stems of 
other plants, and take away their strength. 
The misletoe thus fastens on trees, and 
dodder fastens on flax. Such plants are 
called parasites. There are a variety of 
shell fish that fasten themselves to rocks, and 
to other fish. All such are called parasites. 
Some of them have shells in two parts, like 
oysters or clams. They lie with their shells 
open, waiting ibr something to swim along 
for them to eat ; but if they see any danger 
coming, they shut up very quick. 

John, That must be a very safe and easy 
way of getting a living. 

Aunt Maria, Not so safe as you think. 
They have a destructive enemy, called the 
Trochus ; a kind of sea-snail, with a conical 
shell, and a trunk toothed like a saw. This 
instrument bores, like an augur, through the 
hardest and thickest shell. When the tro- 
chus once fastens, he cannot be shaken oflf. 
It is of no use to open and shut the shell; 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 175 

ever so violently. There he stays till he 
bores through, and eats the fish inside. 

John, Is that the reason why there are 
so many shells of clams, oysters, and cockles, 
on the beach, with round holes in them, as if 
they had been bored with an awl ? 

Aunt Maria, Yes. When the animal is 
sucked out, the empty shell is washed on 
shore. 

John. If I were a cockle I would be cun- 
ning. I would creep into one of these empty 
shells, and then if a trochus came along and 
saw the hole, he would think there was no- 
body at home. 

Aunt Maria. What if he should happen 
to catch you walking ? 

John, A shell-fish walk ? That makes 
me laugh. 

Aunt Maria, But they do walk ; and by 
many ingenious contrivances, they manage to 
do very well without feet. When scallop-shells 
are left on the beach by the retiring tide, the 
animal that inhabits them throws the valves 
of his shell wide open, and closing them with 
a sudden jerk, throws himself forward five 
or six inches. By repeating this process, he 
at last gets back to the sea. Some oysters 
thrust one end of their shell in the sand, till 
they stand nearly upright, and wait for the 



176 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

coming tide to pitch them over. The sea- 
m^chin has a shell full of small holes, through 
each of which he pushes a horn, something 
like a snail's. On these he rolls ovei% like 
the wheel of a coach, until he reaches the 
end of his journey. From his appearance, 
when these horns are thrust out, he is often 
called the sea-hedge-hog, or porcupine. The 
river-muscle digs a hole in the sand with his 
feet, and by a violent motion brings his shell 
into it upright ; then he pushes the sand away 
till he brings himself flat again. Then he 
digs another hole, and thus slowly creeps on. 

John, The clumsy, awkward things ! 

Aunt Maria, They are not all awkward. 
The Ostrea Imbricata, or the Imbricated 
Oyster, has the faculty of leaping, like a fly- 
ing squirrel. When darting through the 
billows, their gay and sparkling colours look 
very beautiful. They are sometimes called 
butterflies of the ocean. When the sea is 
calm, whole fleets of them may be seen with 
shells raised up to catch the breeze ; but if 
a gust of wind rises, they dive instantly. 

Then there is the beautiful, fragile shell, 
called the Argonaut, or Paper Nautilus. The 
animal which inhabits this graceful little 
fairy-boat, can come up to the surface of the 
sea, whenever he chooses to make his vesse' 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 177 

lighter, by throwing out water. He has a 
fine thin membrane, which he raises for a 
sail. He throws out two long arms for oars, 
and steers with his other arms. It is the de- 
light of sailors to see these little fleets scud- 
ding before the wind. They receive the 
name of Argonauts from the crew of the old 
Greek ship Argo, the most ancient sailors on 
record. Some suppose that the first idea of 
making vessels with sails and oars was sug- 
gested by these little pearly boats. These 
shells are not very common. It is almost 
impossible to catch them while sailing ; for 
at the slightest approach of danger, the cun- 
ning Argonaut takes in his sail, and draws 
in water enough to sink him instantly. When 
taken, they are usually fished up on rocky 
shores ; but the shells are so very brittle, 
that it is extremely difficult to bring them 
home safely. There is one species called 
Argonauta Vitreus, or Glass Argonaut, be- 
cause it is as transparent as glass. These 
are extremely rare, and valued very highly 
There is another beautiful shell called the 
Nautilus, which is shaped somewhat like the 
Argonaut, but it is less graceful, and thicker 
and stronger. The animal that lives in it, 
can sail in it like a boat, but he generally 
floats on the water, with his shell on his back, 
12 



178 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

The A^mding part of his little pearly palace 
is divided into various chambers, sometimes 
thirty or forty, one above another, separated 
by floors of pearl. The Asiatics make 
drinking cups of this shell, and greatly ad- 
mire it for its beauty and singular construc- 
tion. 

John, Are pearls made of this shell ? 

Aunt Maria. No. Pearls are obtained 
from two or three species of oyster. The 
most famous of these is the Mytilus Marga- 
ritiferus, or Pearl-bearing Muscle. They 
abound on the coast of Ceylon and the Per- 
sian Gulf. Some of the shells contain ten 
or twelve pearls, others not any. They vary 
much in size, form, and colour. Some are 
large as a walnut : but these are rare. The 
smallest are called seed-pearls. Some are 
yellow, some silvery white, some lead colour, 
and some black. Some are round, some 
pear-shaped, and some onion-shaped. They 
lie in the shells, and are washed out. It is 
generally supposd that nature provides the 
pearl-oyster with this substance to mend or 
enlarge his shell, as he has need. There is 
a hard substance inside the crab, which he 
dissolves in order to make a new shell when 
he leaves his old one. 

John. What does he leave his shell for ? 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 179 

Aunt Maria. Because he outgrows it, as 
you do your last year's clothes. Grabs and 
lobsters cast their shells, as snakes do their 
skins. For a little while, they have no other 
covering than a very thin membrane, like 
the skin between an egg and its shell. They 
hide away under rocks until the new shell 
has grown. 

John. I should not like to do so, while I 
was waiting for a new suit of clothes. But 
how do they get the oysters that have pearls 
in them ? 

Aunt Maria. Divers go down into the 
sea, with ropes fastened about the waist, and 
heavy stones tied to them. It is a very dif- 
ficult and dangerous trade. The divers are 
often devoured by sharks, and their health 
always suffers by this business. The oysters 
lie eight or ten fathoms deep, and fasten 
themselves so strongly to the rocks, that it 
requires great force to tear them away. The 
pressure of the water at that depth is dread- 
ful. It forces the blood from nose, eyes and 
ears, and occasions sounds in the head like 
the report of a gun. Divers go down with 
nostrils and ears stuffed with cotton, to pre- 
vent the water from ffettin^: in ; and to the 
arm is fastened a sponge dipped in oil, which 
they now and then hold before the mouth,. 



180 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

in order to breathe without swallowing wa- 
ter. Since the invention of the diving-bell, 
the dangers and difficulties of the pearl fish- 
ery are lessened, but it is still a very disa- 
greeable employment. 

John, Men must care a great deal for 
pearls, to take so much trouble for them. 

Aunt Maria, Those who dive are poor 
men, willing to run much risk to earn mo- 
ney. Rich people value pearls for their 
beauty, and are willing to pay large sums of 
money for them ; but I think they would go 
without those beautiful jewels, if they had to 
dive for them themselves. Roman history 
tells of a pearl which Cleopatra dissolved 
and drank to the health of Anthony. Ac- 
cording to Pliny, that pearl was valued at 
about $375,000 of our present money. I 
suppose the Egyptian queen, in her pride and 
vanity, never thought how much the poor 
diver suflered to obtain her precious jewel. 
A pearl valued at 80,000 ducats was given 
to Phillip II., king of Spain. It was oval, 
and as large as a pigeon's egg. The value 
of pearls has been lessened in modern times?, 
by the manufacture of artificial pearls of 
great beauty. 

John, What is mother-of-pearl, of whicn 
they make such handsome buttons and boxes? 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 181 

Aunt Maria. It is the inner part of the 
shell of the Pearl Muscle. Beautiful little 
articles are likewise made of the Haliotis, or 
Sea-Ear. This shell is lustrous as a pearl, 
and is splendidly variegated with all the co- 
lours of the rainbow. When polished, it is 
as rich as a peacock's tail. Large pearls 
are sometimes found in the Chama Gigas, or 
Giant Clam, the largest of all shells. Lin- 
naeus describes one which weighed 498 
English pounds. He says the violent closing 
of its valves has been known to snap a cable 
in two ; and the animal it contained has sup- 
plied one humored and twenty men with a 
day's food. Cie of these huge shells was 
presented by ihe Venetians to Francis I., 
king of France. It is still used as a baptis- 
mal font, in the church of St. Sulpice, in Pa- 
ris. It is common to place a shell of this 
kind on the table, at the anniversary feast of 
the Pilgrims, in Plymouth. 

John, These sKell-fish seem to be the 
most helpless of animals. 

Aunt Maria. They have not been left 
unprotected ; though we know little of their 
means of protection, owing to the impossibi- 
lity of observing them in their native ele- 
ment. Most of them have little doors, which 
they shut on the approach of danger, or 



182 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

when troubled with a boisterous sea. Many 
of the snail species seal up their shells at the 
approach of winter, and do not open them 
till spring returns. The Chiton or Coat of 
Mail, has a shell formed of scales, lying one 
over another, like shingles on a house, or 
pieces of ancient armour. It looks like a 
rough pebble creeping about among the 
rocks, and wreaths of sea-weed ; but on the 
slightest approach of danger, it rolls itself up 
into a tight little ball, as the porcupine does. 
The Pholas, or Pierce-Stone, is armed with 
an instrument by which it can cut into wood, 
coral, or rock, and hide itself sr^jurely. Many 
of them are found in chalk, w nich must be a 
pleasanter home for them than rocks and 
stones. There is so much phosphorus about 
the Pholas, that one of them in a bowl of 
milk will render it so brightly luminous, that 
all the objects round can be seen by its light. 
Many marine animals are furnished with a 
little bag of glutinous matter, with which 
they spin threads, like the spider or silk- 
worm. By these threads they fasten them- 
selves to the rocks. Sometimes these lines 
are not more than two inches long ; and 
sometimes they are strong floating threads, 
which can be drawn in, or let out, at plea 
sure. This enables them to come up and 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 183 

sport on the surface of the waves, and go 
down whenever they choose. More than 
one hundred and fifty of these cables are 
sometimes employed to moor a single muscle. 
The Solen, or Razor Sheath can dig pits in 
the soft sand, and hide himself at a great 
depth. The common oyster has the power 
of throwing water from his shell with suffi- 
cient force to keep off any ordinary enemy. 

John, But a whole engine company would 
be of no use against the Trochus. A mean 
fellow, to be going about boring a hole into 
other people's houses ! 

Aunt Maria, Another mean fellow is the 
Caracol Soldata, rightly named the Soldier- 
Snail. He is among fishes what the cuckoo 
is among birds. The cuckoo builds no nest 
for herself, but lays her eggs in other birds' 
nests, and when the young cuckoo is hatch- 
ed, he turns out all the rightful family. The 
Soldier-Snail has no shell of his own, but 
takes possession of the best one he can find. 
When he outgrows his house, he goes in 
search of another, and fights with any de- 
fenceless shell-fish, who has a home more 
convenient than his own. But the Pinna, 
or Sea-King, has a little friend, that manages 
to get his living as cunningly as any one I 
know of The Pinnae fasten themselves to 



184 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

rocks by means of thick tufts of thread, which 
are often broken off for sale. In Sicilj% the 
women wash it, soak it in lemon-juice, dry it, 
card, spin, and weave it into gloves and caps 
of a beautiful golden brown colour. For this 
reason, these shell-fish are often called Ocean 
Silk-worms. They are blind, and constantly 
annoyed by the Cuttle-Fish. But a small, 
quick-sighted crab is said to lodge in the shell 
with them, and give notice when danger ap- 
proaches. When he sees provisions floating 
near, he gives his friend Pinna a nip, and he 
opens the valves of his shell, and draws in 
the food, which answers for himself and his 
little steward. 

John, There is some sagacity among 
shell-fishes, though they do seem so stupid. 
But do you believe the little crab boards 
with the Pinna, and gets his living by keep- 
ing a sharp look-out for him ? 

Aunt Maria. It is generally believed, 
and has been so from ancient times. The 
Greek Aristotle and the Roman Pliny both 
speak of it as a fact in natural history. I 
have read another anecdote of shell fishes, 
which seems to me almost too much to be- 
lieve. Lobsters are very fond of oysters 
and always feed upon them when they can 
get ,a chance. It is said that a large oystei 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 185 

was one day lying on the beach, with his 
shell thrown open, to enjoy the coming tide. 
A lobster near by darted upon him ; but the 
oyster made haste to shut up before the ene- 
my could get in. Three times the lobster 
tried it ; and three times the oyster was too 
quick for him. At last, he took a pebble in 
his claws, and threw it in, while the shell 
was open. This prevented the oyster from 
shutting his doors, and the lobster ate him. 

John. That is a good story ; but I should 
have to see it, before I could believe that a 
lobster has so much cunning. I pity the poor 
little fish ; they seem to have so n)any ene- 
mies. If I must be a fish, I should rather be 
a prodigious great whale. 

Aunt Maria. Monarch as he is among 
the fishes, his situation is by no means to be 
envied. He is not only pursued and killed 
by man, but he has formidable enemies among 
his own species. The sword-fish and the 
thrasher unite to torment him. The sword- 
fish is armed with a long sharp horn, edged 
like a saw. He runs under the whale and 
pierces him with this horn ; and when the 
huge creature in agony rushes to the top of 
the water, the thrasher is there to strike at 
him, till he drives him down again. He 
lashes the waves in his fury, but his enemies 

q 



186 LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 

are so much lighter than he is, that they 
easily keep out of the way of his enormous 
tail. Every time the distressed animal beats 
the waves, It sounds like the report of a can- 
non. 

John, What immense creatures they must 
be! 

Aunt Maria. The great Greenland whale 
is usually from fifty to seventy feet long, 
weighs as much as two hundred fat oxen, 
and yields from twelve to twenty tons of 
lamp oil. The mouth of a whale is large 
enough to contain a ship's jolly-boat full of 
men. The whale-bone, of which so much 
use is made, consists of layers of horn in the 
upper jaw of the whale. One of these plates 
is sometimes twelve feet long and a foot thick. 
When the whale wants a dinner, he swims 
rapidly below the surface of the water, with 
his jaws wide open. A vast stream of water 
consequently enters his capacious m.outh, 
bearhig along a large quantity of small fish 
and marine insects. The water escapes 
again at the sides of his mouth, but the fish 
get entangled in the whale-bone, as in a net. 

John. 1 often see pictures of whales with 
great arches of water streaming from their 
heads. What do they do that for ? 

Aunt Maria. Unlike other fishes, they 



LIFE IN THE OCEAN. 



187 



have lungs, like human beings, and are there- 
fore obliged to come up to the surface of the 
water to breathe. The nostrils, or blow- 
holes, through which they draw in the air, 
are on the top of the head. In breathing 
they make a very loud noise, and throw up 
water, which at a little distance looks like 
columns of smoke. Sometimes the whale 
throws himself into a perpendicular posture, 
and rearing his tail on high, beats the water 
with such tremendous violence, that the sea 
is thrown into foam for miles round, and the 
air filled with vapours. When he cracks his 
mighty tail, hke a whip, the noise is heard for 
miles. 




THE NAUTILUS 



THE SISTER'S HYMN. 

ABOUT A VERY LITTLE BROTHER, WHO WENT AWAY FBOM 
THIS WORLD TO LIVE WITH THE ANGELS. 



"They laid him in a chamber, whose windows opened 
toward the sun-rising ; the name of the chamber was Peace ; 
where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and 
sang." Pilgrim'' s Progress* 




ROTHER James was a charming 
boy, 
Loving and full of glee — 
It always filled our hearts with joy 
His happy face to see. 

He was so funny, yet so mild, 

In all his infant plays — 
I never saw a little child 

That had such winning ways. 



THE sister's hymn. 189 

I used to say, " The little birds 

Do in their nests agree ;'*^ 
And that he understood the words 

Was plain as it could be. 

For sometimes, if he chanced to fret, 

He 'd nestle close to me, 
And sorry for his little pet. 

Would kiss, and lisp "^ee, ^ec." 

Oh, how he loved to run about, 
And gather the spring posies ! 

He would have raised a merry shout. 
To see the great red roses ! 

But his dear little soul was gone, 
Ere the buds began to blow: 

I wish he could have seen just one — 
It would have pleased him so. 

But father says he's gone away 
To a world of brighter flowers, 

Where little angels with him play 
Through all the pleasant hours. 

Sweetly his little laughing voice 
Floats on the balmy air, 



190 THE sister's hymn. 

And many heavenly babes rejoice 
To see my brother there. 

They bring him little lambs and doves, 
And joy shines in his face ; 

For all the things our darling loves 
Are in that blessed place. 

And when he falls asleep at even, 
His dreams are bright and fair ; 

His spirit feels at home in Heaven, 
And thinks we're with him there. 




FOR YOUNG PERSONS OF VARIOUS AGES. 



FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: 

BY L. MARIA CHILD. 
Part II. 



GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 




MELiA Osgood was a very- 
good little child. She was 
as busy as a bee. You 
know the bee works all 
the long summer day, to 
fill his honey-pots from 
the flowersj before winter 
comes. 

When Amelia first began to talk, she 
called her own name Mltty Osdood. The 
words were too big for her little tongue, and 
she could not speak them quite plain. This 
made her older sister smile ; and afterward, 
when she was quite a large girl, she always 
called her Mitty. 

I am sure Mitty had very bright eyes, for 
they spied out every thing : and I am very 
sure she had a nimble tongue, for she talk- 
ed about every thing. When her sister 
Mary was sitting at work, Mitty would 
r 



12 GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 

talk to ner all the time, unless Mary asked 
her to be silent. 

''Sister Ma-ivee^''^ she would say, "here 
is a little fly eating up my sugar. He sucks, 
sucks, sucks. Why don't he eat it up, sis- 
ter Ma- wee? How long it takes him to eat 
a little crumb of sugar. There, you may 
have it all, poor fly ; for I know you are 
hungry, and have not had any breakfast. 
My mother tells me to bring my little arm- 
chair, and she ties on my little apron, and 
gives me a porringer of good warm milk for 
my breakfast, every morning. But you 
have not got any mother, or any arm-chair, 
poor little fly ; and you may eat all my 
sugar for your breakfast. Now he has 
stopped eating ; and he is rubbing his hands 
together, just as kitty does when she washes 
her paw. Kitty puts her tongue in the 
milk, when she eats. Where is the fly's 
tongue, sister Ma-Avee?" 

Mary called her a little chatterbox ; and 
told her that the fly had a little tube in his 
mouth, through which he sucked sugar, just 
as little girls sometimes suck cider with a 
straw. A few days after, Mitty went to 
the Museum, and saw an elephant. She 
saw him drink a bottle of wine, and pick 
up half a dollar with his trunk. Then her 



GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 13 

sister told her that the Httle fly's tube was 
very much like the elephant's trunk ; only 
the fly's tube was very, very small, and the 
elephant's trunk was very large indeed. 

Mitty listened to all her sister said about 
the elephant. When she got home, her 
head was so full of what she had heard, 
that she told her mother she had seen a 
great big fly. This made her brother John 
laugh very much. When his little sister 
grew older, he loved to plague her, by call- 
ing an elephant '^ Mitty' s fly." 

Mitty was a very good-natured little girl. 
[ never heard her speak a cross word in my 
life. When John laughed at her about the 
elephant, she did not cry, or pout, or push 
her brother away. She only said, ^^ Sister Ma- 
wee told me a fly was just like an elephant." 

'' Oh no, Mitty," said Mary ; '' I did not 
tell you a fly was just like an elephant. A 
fly has wings, you know, and can fly away. 
But the elephant has no wings; he cannot 
fly away. I only told you the fly had a 
little tube, with which he sucked up his 
food, very much like the elephant's trunk." 

John kissed Mitty, and said she was a 
very little girl, and could not understand all 
that was told her; but she was the best lit- 
tle playmate in the world. And because 



14 GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 

«ihe was such a good-natured, pleasant little 
girl^ he asked her to go out in the sunshine, 
and see him blow soap-bubbles. Mitty was 
very glad to go with her brother ; and she 
gave him her hand, and ran jumping along, 
as happy as a little butterfly among the 
roses. 

While John was fixing a bowl of soap 
and water, to make the bubbles, she ran to 
the barn to get a big straw for him. Her 
little lamb heard her coming, and he ran to 
her, crying, '' baa ! baa !'' I do not be- 
lieve there ever was a little girl more happy 
than Mitty was then. She laughed so loud, 
you might have heard her merry voice all 
over the garden. She loved her little lamb 
dearly. She picked some sweet clover for 
him, and he ate it from her hand. When 
she went to carry the big straw to John, the 
little lamb ran after her, as fast as he could 
make his trotters go. 

When John saw him come, he laughed, 
and said, ^'One of these days, when the 
lamb is bigger, perhaps father will cut some 
wool from his back, and mother will make 
my little sis a nice pair of lamb's wool 
stockings. But kind little Mitty said, ^^ Oh, 
no indeed ; for then my little lamb would 
be cold." John told her it would not make 



GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 15 

the lamb cold; for father would cut off very 
little woolj and he would cut it off when 
the weather was very warm. So Mitty was 
well pleased to think of having some nice 
lamb's wool stockings. 

She sat down on the grass with the lamb's 
head in her lap, and watched the bright 
soap-bubbles, as they rose up in the air. 
Sometimes she would laugh so loud, and 
clap her hands, that the little lamb would 
jump upon his feet, to see what the matter 
could be. 

There was a beautiful little humming 
bird flying about among the vines in the 
garden, and eating his supper in the honey- 
suckle blossoms. When he flew up in the 
air, his feathers shone with such bright co- 
lours, that Mitty clapped her hands, and 
shouted, ^'Oh, brother John, see, see that 
biibhle-hixd !" She called him a bubble- 
bird, because he had colours bright as the 
rain-bow, and glittered in the sunlight, like 
the soap-bubbles. 

When Mitty went to bed that night, she 
was very tired; for she had played a great 
deal, and her little feet ached. She fell 
asleep in her little arm-chair, with her por- 
ringer of milk half full in her lap. Her 
mother undressed her, and was going to put 



16 GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 

her into bed, without hearing her say, ^^Now 
I lay me down to sleep." She thought hei 
little girl was too sleepy to say it. But 
Mitty knelt down, and said, '' I will say my 
prayers, mother ; for God is very good to 
me. He gave me my father, and my mo- 
ther, and sister Ma- wee, and brother John. 
He made my little lamb, and the bubble- 
bird, and the great big elephant fly, and the 
little fly, and the good old cow, that gives 
me milk for my supper. , God loves little 
Mitty, mother; and I will not go to sleep 
without thanking God." 

Her mother kissed her, and called her a 
good little child; and Mitty folded her hands 
in her mother's lap, and said her prayers. 
Then her mother laid her down in her clean 
soft bed, and kissed her, and bade her good- 
night. 

Mitty talked as long as she could keep 
awake ; for she was a real chatterbox. 
When her mother left her, she said, ^'Good 
night, mother dear. When I am big enough, 
I will knit father some stockings of my 
lamb's wool ; and my little Bantam hen will 
lay some eggs ; and when I am a great big 
girl, I will make some custards for you." 

If Mitty lives to be a woman, I am sure 
she will be very good, and everybody will 



GOOD LITTLE MITTY. 



17 



love her. I think so, because she is such a 
kind, good-natured little girl. She never 
speaks a cross word, and she always obeys 
her father and mother. Yes, I am very 
sure Mitty will be a good woman. 




THE SAUCY LITTLE SQUIRREL 




GENTLEMAN Went iiit) the 
woods to stay all day. He 
took with him two ears of 
roasted corn and some 
bread for dinner. After a 
while, he sat down under 
a tree to rest himself, and 
a Uttle squirrel came capering about. The 
ears of roasted corn were lying in some 
clean paper, on the ground. I suppose the 
little squirrel liked the smell of them. He 
acted very much as if he wanted to carry 
them off. He looked at the corn, and then 
he looked in the gentleman's face. When 
he saw him smile, he took hold of one ear 
of corn with his little sharp teeth, and tried 
to drag it away; but it was quite too heavy 
for him. So he nibbled off the kernels, and 
stuffed his mouth as full as he could. Then 
he trotted off to his house under the ground, 



THE SAUCY LITTLE SQUIRREL. 19 

and put the corn away for his dinner. He 
came back again, and stuffed his cheeks as 
full as they could hold. 

He looked up in the gentleman's face, as 
if he wanted to ask whether he would whip 
him for taking his corn. But the gentleman 
loved the squirrel ; and he did not make any 
noise to frighten him away. So the pretty 
little creature came to the tree again, and 
again ; and every time he came, he carried 
off as much as his mouth would hold. He 
did not leave one single kernel of corn on 
the ears. I wonder his little feet were not 
tired, before he got it all stowed away in his 
house. 

I should love to go into the woods, and 
have a little squirrel come and look up in 
my face, and carry off my dinner. 




2 



THE VISIT 




NN and Maria were sisters. 
One summer's day, they 
went to see some little girls 
rather older than they 
were. Their names were 
Harriet and Isabella. Ann 
and Maria were afraid. 
They had never seen the little girls they 
were going to visit ; and they thought they 
should not know what to say. 

But when thoy came to the house, they 
soon felt very happy. Harriet and Isabella 
did all they could to please them. They took 
them by the hand very kindly, and led them 
out to the barn, to see their white hens, and 
their grey hens, and their nice little brood of 
chickens. One of the chickens, not much 
bigger than a butterfly, jumped upon its 
mother's back, and the old hen walked all 
round the yard with her little one. Maria 



THE VISIT. 21 

was small, and could not speak quite plain. 
She clapped her hands and said, ^^O, see 
that ittle chitten riding puss-back." 

The girls all laughed, and Harriet said^ 
^'I think the chicken is riding hen-back." 

Maria puckered up her little mouth, and 
began to feel grieved ; for she thought they 
were making fun of her. ^'Ann, don't the 
chitten ride just as I do, up tairs and down 
tairs, on father's shoulders?" said she. 

Harriet kissed her, and called her a good 
child. She knew it was not kind or polite 
to laugh at very little children because they 
cannot speak plain. 

The white hen was running round the 
yard, with a kernel of corn in her mouth, 
and the grey hen was running after her. 
Isabella pointed her finger at them. ^4 think 
that white hen is a very stingy hen," said 
she : ^^ see her run all over the field, and 
away down into the orchard, just for the 
sake of eating that morsel of corn all by 
herself." 

^'I would not be so stingy for all the 
world," said Ann; and so said all the little 
girls. 

When the children were tired of looking 
at the chickens, they brought little chairs 
and crickets, and seated themselves under 



22 THE VISIT. 

a large elm-tree. There was a sweet-briar 
bush near by, covered with beautiful red 
seed-vessels, almost as large as cherries. 
Ann said the berries would make a sweet 
pretty necklace. ^' I will go into the house, 
and ask mother for a big needle and thread," 
said Isabella, ^^ and we will string some of 
them for you and Maria." 

^^ And will you string one for kitty's neck, 
too?" asked Maria. Isabella promised that 
the kitten should have a necklace. She soon 
came back with needles and thread. 

While they were stringing the bright red 
berries, Harriet said she would go into the 
garden and gather some flowers, to make a 
wreath for Maria's hair. ^' Will you make 
one for me to carry home to little puss ?" 
said Maria. She peeped up into Harriet's 
face so prettily, with her bright blue eyes, 
that she could not help running to kiss the 
little darling. ^^ You are a good little puss 
yourself," said she, ^^ and I will make a nice 
little garland for your kitten's neck." 

'' I love her little kitten," said Aim. ^^ She 
lies in my lap and purrs so good-naturedly. 
Aunt Maria says that is the way cats 
laugh." 

Harriet asked her mother's leave, and 
then ran into the garden, to gather an apron 



THE VISIT. 23 

full of flowers. When she came back, 
Maria was crying, and stamping her little 
feet. Ann stood a great way from her, with 
her hands behind her back, looking very 
cross. When Maria ran a few steps toward 
her sister, she ran away as fast as her feet 
would carry her. Maria tried to run after 
her, but she hit her little foot against a 
stone, and fell down, and cut her lip. 

^'What is the matter?'^ asked Harriet. 
^^I left you all so h^ppy when I went in the 
garden, and now you are all in trouble.'' 

''Ann found a nice ripe pear on the 
ground," said Isabella; '' and she hid it be- 
hind her back, and was not willing to give 
her sister a piece." 

They took the little girl up, and wiped 
the blood from her mouth, and tried to com- 
fort her. When Ann saw how much her 
little sister was hurt, she felt sorry, and very 
much ashamed. "I thought you would 
not be so stingy as our white hen, for all the 
world," said Isabella; '' and now you have 
been running away just for the sake of eat- 
ing a pear all by yourself" 

Ann began to cry, and said she was very 
sorry she had acted so much hke the stingy 
hen. When they had washed Maria's 
mouth, she kissed her, and gave her half the 



24 



THE VISIT. 



pear. 
Little 



Then they were all happy again, 
children are always happy, when 
they are kind and obliging to each other. 

At sundown, their mother came in a 
chaise, to take them home. They kissed 
their little playmates, and bade them good- 
bye a dozen times. They talked very fast 
all the way home, telling their mother what 
a charming time they had. 




THE NEW-ENGLAND BOY'S SONG 

ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAT. 



VER the river, and through the 
wood, 
To grandfather's house we go ; 
The horse knows the way, 
To carry the sleigh, 
Through the white and drifted snow. 



Over the river, and through the wood, 
To grandfather's house away ! 
We would not stop 
For doll or top. 
For 't is Thanksgiving day. 



26 THE NEW-ENGLAND BOy's SONG 

Over the river, and through the vrood, 
Oh, how the wind does blow! 
It stings the toes, 
And bites the nose, 
As over the ground we go. 



Over the river, and through the wood, 
With a clear blue winter sky. 
The dogs do bark, 
And children hark, 
As we go jingling by. 

Over the river, and through the wood. 
To have a first-rate plaj — 
Hear the bells rinor 
Ting a ling ding. 
Hurra for Thanksgiving day! 

Over the river, and through the wood- 
No matter for winds that blow ; 
Or if we get 
The sleigh upset, 
Into a bank of snow. 



ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAY. 27 

Over the river, and through the wood, 

To see httle John and Ann ; 

We will kiss them all, 

And play snow-ball. 

And stay as long as we can. 

Over the river, and through the wood, 
Trot fast, my dapple grey ! 
Spring over the ground, 
Like a hunting hound, 
For 't is Thanksgiving day ! 

Over the river, and through the wood, 
And straight through the barn-yard 
gate; 
We seem to go 
Extremely slow. 
It is so hard to wait. 

Over the river, and through the wood- 
Old Jowler hears our bells ; 
He shakes his pow. 
With a loud bow wow. 

And thus the news he tells, 
s 



28 



THE NEW-ENGLAND BOY'S SONG. 



Over the river, and through the vrood — 
When grandmother sees us come, 
She will say, Oh dear, 
The children are here. 
Bring a pie for every one. 

Over the river, and through the wood — 
Now grandmother's cap I spy ! 

Hurra for the fun ! 

Is the pudding done ? 
Hurra for the pumpkin pie ! 




THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL. 




HEY won't come to-night, I 
know they won't come," 
said Juha to her mother. 
^'Oh yes, they will, my 
dear," replied her mother; 
^4t is not late yet." 

Julia was expecting 
some little girls to come and play with her; 
and she was not so patient as a good little 
daughter should be, when mother is kind 
enough to invite her friends. A minute or 
two after, she said again, ^'Mother, I'm sure 
they won't come. The sun has gone away 
from the last paving-stone in the yard. I 
know they won't come." 

^'If you are so fretful, I shall not invite 

your friends to come and see you again," 

said her mother. ^'I am not fretful," said 

Julia, ^'but I do wish they would come." 

While Julia said this, she was dressing a 



30 THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL. 

large wax doll ; and she was in a great fid- 
get, for fear it would not be dressed before 
the little girls came. Her aunt Mary had 
made the doll a pretty robe of white muslin, 
and Julia wished very much to put it on. 
The robe was too short, and her mother told 
her she had better rip the wide hem very 
carefully, and make a narrower one. Julia 
began very well, but there was a knot in 
the thread, and she would not wait for her 
mother's advice. She took a pin, and pull- 
ed upon the knotty stitch, with all her 
strength. She tore the muslin badly, and 
began to fret. 

'' If you had been slow and careful, you 
would not have spoiled that pretty robe," 
said her mother; ^'I wish my little daughter 
would learn to be more patient." 

Before Julia could find another gown for 
her doll, two of the little girls came. She 
was so impatient to see them, that she flung 
the doll down in her little brother's chair, 
and ran to take off their bonnets and shawls. 
When her brother heard the bell ring, he 
wanted to climb in his chair, to look out of 
the window. He stepped on the doll, and 
broke it to pieces. When Julia came back 
for her doll, she found the face all smashed, 
and the pretty black eyes rolling on the floor 



THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL. 31 

She cried with vexation, and began to make 
loud complaints of George. But her mother 
said J *^ Your brother is not to blame. He is 
a very little boy, and he did not know the 
doll was in his chair. You should never 
be in such a hurry, that you do not mind 
where you throw your playthings." 

More little girls came soon. When they 
saw the pieces of the doll, they all said it 
was a great pity such a beautiful thing 
had been thrown down so carelessly. They 
all went into the parlour, and began to play 
Hide-and-go-seek. They enjoyed this very 
well, for a short time; but Julia soon began 
to grow impatient. When she was blind- 
ed, she would open one eye a little, so that 
she could see where the handkerchief was 
hidden. If the little girls did not find it 
very quick, she would tell them where it 
was. Her playmates said there was no fun 
in this ; and they would not play Hide- 
and-go-seek any longer. 

Julia saw that her visiters were offended 
with her, and she did not feel pleasantly at 
all. But they soon became good-natured 
again. A little girl, named Catherine, said, 
''• Now let us play the Grand Mufti." Some 
of them said they did not know how to 
play it. But Catherine said, ^^ Look at me; 



32 THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL. 

and whenever I say, ^As says the Grand 
Mufti/ you must do whatever I do. But 
when I say, ^So says the Grand Mufti,' you 
must be careful not to do what I do.'' 

They began the play, and she tried to 
speak as quick as ever she could. It was 
very hard to remember whether she said so 
or as; and they made a thousand mistakes. 
She snapped her fingers, and said, '' So 
says the Grand Mufti ;" and they all snap- 
ped their fingers. 

^'That is wrong," cried Catherine, "1 
told you not to do as I did, when I said, 
^So says the Grand Mufti.'" 

Then she said, ^^As says the Grand Muf- 
ti," and began to dance. The little girls 
remembered that they had made a wrong 
motion before, and all but one stood still. 

This amused little George very much. 
He began to shake his curly head, and 
laugh merrily. But Julia grew impatient 
again. Every time Catherine spoke, she 
repeated so and as, very loud, that the little 
girls might not make a mistake. Catherine 
said there was no fun in playing so ; and 
they gave up the Grand Mufti. 

Some of the girls were quite discontented, 
and wanted to go home. Julia went cry- 



THE IMPATIENT LITTLE GIRL. 33 

ing to her mother , and said, ^^ My company 
want to go home. What shall I do 7'' 

Her mother went to inquire what was the 
matter ; and the children said, " We can- 
not play anything. Julia spoils all our fun." 
The mother said, '^ My little daughter wish- 
es to make you all happy ; and I think she 
will try not to be impatient any more." 

Julia promised she would ; and they all 
began to play Hunt-the-thimble. But when 
little girls allow themselves to form a bad 
habit, it is not easy to leave it off, all at 
once. After a while, Julia forgot her prom- 
ise. If she knew what little girl had the 
thimble, she would call out, ^'l know where 
it is : somebody with a blue sash has got 
it." When the children found she would 
not wait for her turn, they said they would 
not give a cent to play so; and they gave 
it all up. 

They went home early, and said to one 
another, ^^ Julia showed us many pretty 
things, and we begun many pleasant plays ; 
butshe spoiled it all, by being so impatient." 

Julia's mother talked very seriously with 
her. ''My little daughter," said she, ''do 
you not see that you make yourself disa- 
greeable, and everybody uncomfortable, by 
always bein^i in such a fidget?" 



34 MAKING SOMETHING. 

Mr. Carpenter, cordially shaking his hand. 
^^ My plane made such a noise, that I did 
not hear you come in.'' 

*' I was used to that, in old times," said 
his friend. '' As I came through the gar- 
den, and saw all manner of little fountains 
and garden chairs 1 said to myself. These 
are all John's work, and I dare say I shall 
find him making something.'' 

^' Yes, they are my work," replied the 
cheerful old man. '^ I enjoy myself very 
much making these pretty arrangements 
for myself and neighbors. My wife has 
a great fancy for cypress vines, and my 
son has drawn an extremely pretty pattern 
of a Gothic arch surmounted by a cross, 
for her to arrange her vines upon. I am 
trying to make the frame in a way that 
will please them." 

^' I should suppose a man of your pro- 
perty would hire a mechanic to do it," 
said his visiter. 

^^ I am a mechanic myself," answered 
he, with a good-humored smile ; ^' and 
the older I grow, the more I am convin- 
ced that the pleasure of life is not in hav- 
i?ig things, but in doing things. But walk 
in and see my family. Ann will be ex- 
tremely glad to see her old school-mate 



MAKING SOMETHING. 35 

You will stay and dine with us, will you 
not ? We are going to have that real old- 
fashioned Yankee dinner, baked beans and 
an Indian pudding. I remember you used 
to be extravagantly fond of them, when 
we were boys." 

'' Ah, those were happy days," said Mr. 
Merchant, in a sad tone. ^' Every thing 
tasted good then. But now I have the 
dyspepsia to a dreadful degree, and am 
obliged to be extremely careful what I 
eat." 

As they passed the dairy windows, they 
saw Mrs. Carpenter busily moulding the 
butter she had just churned. '' There is 
my old school-mate!" exclaimed Mr. Mer- 
chant. '' But, bless me^ how young and 
fresh she looks !" She nodded cheerfully, 
as they passed, and came out to welcome 
the vister, without stopping to change her 
dairy apron. 

"You are like your husband, I see ; you 
like to be making something," said he. 

" Yes," she repUed, '' it is an amusement 
to superintend my own dairy. It is a bles- 
sing that we are not obliged to work too 
hard, in our old age ; but we continue to 
occupy ourselves, from a sincere love of 
employment. When I have spent an hour 



36 LITTLE RUNAWAY?. 

home again. But 17137 home had gone away^ 
and now 1 don't know where it is.*' Then 
she began to sob again. 

I asked her in wliat street her mother 
lived. '' She knows, but 1 don't," said the 
poor child. 

I did not know where to carry her, and I 
told her she had better go home with me. 
This mado her sob worse. '' Oh, I want to 
see my mother ! I want to see my mother !" 
said she : ''how I do wish my mother would 
^H)me and find me." 

T told her she must never go in the street 
alone again, till she was bigger ; for she was 
not old enough to find her way, and there 
were many horses in the street, that might 
run over her. She said if she ever found 
her way home, she would never run away 
again, so long as she lived. As I was walk- 
ing along with her, and she was wiping 
her eyes wiili the corner of her apron, I saw 
a woman, who looked at every little girl she 
met. I thought perhaps she was mother to 
the lost one ; and sure enough she was. As 
soon as the little runaway saw her, she let 
go of my hand, and ran faster than the 
little dog she wanted to catch. She caught 
hold of her mother's gown, and cried, and 
laughed, and jumped up and down. 



LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 37 

Her mother was very glad to see her. 
She kissed her a great many times, and 
hugged her close to her heart. When she 
told her how naughty it was to run away, 
and how she had frightened her poor mo- 
ther, the little girl began to cry again. She 
said she never would go away from the door 
step alone again. 

I knew another little girl, about three 
years old, whose name was Lucy. She 
was generally a pretty good girl; but one 
day she did a very naughty thing, and 
made her mother very much ashamed. Her 
father and mother had gone to church, and 
Lucy was left in the care of her nurse. 
While the nurse was dusting the chairs in 
the parlour, Lucy went into the kitchen, and 
crowded her whole apron into a bowl of soft 
soap. Then she began to ^ash it, as she 
had seen the washer- woman do. The nurse 
called to her, to know what she was doing; 
and when she did not answer, she went 
into the kitchen to see what she was about. 
Lucy cried very much, when the soaped 
apron was taken from her ; and while the 
nurse went to get a clean apron, she ran 
off. 

I do not know what made little Lucy so 
very naughty that day. She knew her fa- 



38 LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 

ther and mother had gone to church ; and 
she ran along the dusty road, till she came 
to the church door. She ran right in, among 
all the people. She had been crying, her 
face was spotted with soft soap, and her 
gown was very wet with the water she had 
spilled. Of course, she was a strange look- 
ing child. She did not know where to find 
her father and mother, and when she saw 
the people looking at her, she began to cry. 
A man led her out of the church, and show- 
ed her the way home. Her mother sat far 
from the church door, and she did not know 
what child it was, who came in with a wet 
gown and a dirty face, and disturbed the 
people by crying, When she heard that it 
Avas her own little girl, she was very much 
grieved. She told Lucy that she could not 
kiss her when she went to bed that night, 
because she had been so very naughty. 

This made Lucy very unhappy. When 
the nurse put her to bed, she said, ^'Oh 
dear, if my mother will only kiss me to- 
morrow night, and call me her good little 
girl, I will never run away again in my 
life." 

There was another little girl in Boston, 
whose name was Ann. She ran away with 
her brother one day, to see the pond on the 



LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 39 

Common. When she got there, she let go 
of her brother's hand; and because she was 
not big enough to take care of herself, she 
fell into a mud puddle. Her clean gown 
was all covered with mud, and so were her 
hands and face. Some men took her out 
of the puddle, and gave her to her brother 
to be carried home. She was so much fright- 
ened and ashamed, that she cried all the 
way. Even after her mother had washed 
her, and put on clean clothes, she kept sob- 
bing for a long time. She never forgot how 
frightened she was, when she felt herself 
sinking down in the mud puddle. When- 
ever she saw the gown she had on then, 
she was sure to say, ^^ That is the gown I 
had on when I ran away to the Common.'' 

She thought there could be nothing half 
so bad in the world, as falling into a mud- 
puddle. One day, she heard her brother 
read in the Bible about Job. She asked 
who Job was. Her mother told her he was 
a very good man, who met with a great 
deal of trouble, but was always patient. 
She looked up, with a very serious face, 
and said, ^' Mother, do you think Job ever 
fell into a mud-puddle, when he was a lit- 
tle boy?" 

This made all the folks laugh. Poor Ann 



40 LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 

had been so frightened, that she though 
nobody could ever meet with any thing 
worse than falUng into the mud. 

She was always very careful after that; 
and never went away from home without 
her mother gave her leave. 

I knew two little brothers in Boston, who 
went out to make sand-pies, in a heap of 
sand before the door. When nobody was 
looking at them, they ran away. They 
thought it was very good fun to be in the 
street alone ; and they ran about like wild 
things. By and by, they came to an open 
field, and they crept through the fence, and 
went to walk on the grass. They had al- 
ways lived in the city, and the grass felt 
very pleasant to their feet. They went on 
till they were tired^ and then they lay down 
on the grass, and rolled over and over. 
Then they jumped up, and walked on, and 
walked on, till they came to a place where 
there were many trees, and red clover, and 
weeds with big white flowers. They talk- 
ed to a bird they sav/ on a bush, and tried 
to catch a butterfly. They thought it was 
a very fine thing to run away from home. 

But at last they began to feel very hun- 
gry, and very tired. They wanted to go 
back to their mother, but they did not know 



LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 41 

the way, and their Uttle feet ached so, thai 
they CO aid not walk. The younger one had 
but one shoe ; for when he tried to step over 
a small brook, his foot slipped in, and stuck 
fast in the mud. When he pulled his foot 
out, he could not find his shoe. Afterward, 
the stones cut his foot, and made it bleed. 
The poor little fellow lay down and cried. 
Every minute, he kept saying, ^^I want to 
go to my mother. I want to go to my mo- 
ther.'' 

The older brother washed his lame foot 
with some water from the brook, and that 
made him feel a little better. They were 
very hungry indeed, but they could find no- 
thing to eat but two berries. Once, they 
came near a house, and they would have 
gone in, but a great dog barked at them, 
and made them afraid. The dog would not 
have barked at them, if he had known they 
were poor little lost children; for he was a 
very kind dog. The little boys did not 
know what a good dog he was. They 
thought he would bite. So they ran away 
into the fields again. 

They had no dinner, and no supper. 
Night was coming on very fast, and they 
had no bed to sleep on. The little squirrels 
went into their nests, and slept nicely with 



42 MAKING SOMETHING. 

doseope, raised to a level with his eye, and 
made to turn on a swivel, so that one could 
look into it without fatigue. Briglit me- 
tallic ores, of various colors, lay behind it, 
in a focus of light, and the rays conveyed 
by a reflector, formed the most gorgeous 
images within the kaleidoscope. 

" You are not yet tired of making some- 
thing,'^ said Mr. Merchant, smiling. 

^'No indeed," replied the cheerful old 
iian. '' The difiiculty is, I cannot find 
time to make half the things I contrive in 
my head. Look into this toy of mine. Is 
it not a beautiful sight T^ 

^'It is beautifal indeed !" exclaimed his 
visiter. ^' I should not have imagined that 
any thing so splendid could have been 
made with such a common plaything.'^ 

He walked back and forth, thoughtful- 
ly, then stopped abruptly, and said, " Do 
you know I am more and more convinced 
that you are right ? Making money is not 
making any thmg." 

'• Try a new system, my friend," repli- 
ed Mr. Carpenter, soothingly. •^ Prime 
your own trees, plant your own flowers, 
try experiments with your own hands, 
watch the results with your own eyes. In- 
stead of priding yourself on fruit that no 



MAKING SOMETHING. 43 

one else can have, give grafts to all the 
neighborhood. Instead of valuing a flow- 
er according to its cost, value it according 
to its beauty, or its fragrance, and offer 
seed to every one who will rear it. The 
whole country will thus become a garden, 
and your eye will be refreshed wherever 
you go. The longer I have lived, the 
more I have been convinced that the plea- 
sure is in doings not in possessing^ and 
that the happiness we give is the only real 
happiness we takeP 

'' It is too late," replied the rich man 
with a sigh. ^' The proverb says, ^ It is 
hard to teach an old dog new tricks.' 
Even you could not make Towser churn, 
you know. I have come to bid you fare- 
well, my good friend. God bless you. 
When I come back from Europe, I shall 
doubtless find you making something." 

But he never returned to his native 
land. His friend survived him many 
years, and remained active and cheerful 
to the last. At seventy-eight years of age, 
he was found, apparently in a sweet sleep, 
in one of the arbors of his garden. By his 
side was a rocking-horse, which he had 
just finished for the deaf and dumb child 
of a poor neighbor. His spectacles were 



44 



LITTLE RUNAWAYS. 



Oh, how glad she was to see them again ! 
and how glad they were to see their mother ! 
She kissed them and cried, and then kissed 
them and cried again. And the little boys 
put their arms about mother's neck and 
kissed her, and cried too. 

The httle boys never wanted to run away 
again as long as they lived. 








ROBINS 



^VERY child has seen httle 
Sy robin red-breasts, and 
heard many pretty stories 
about them. Every body 
loves little red robin, and 
robin seems to know, too, 
that she is a great favour- 
ite ; for she hops round the door-step, and 
picks up crumbs, and is not the least afraid. 




46 ROBINS. 

One day, when the air was Yeij cold, a 
robin pecked at the window of a poor man 
in Germany, and seemed to ask as plain as 
she could, whether she might come in. The 
good man opened the window for the poor 
little creature, and robin seemed very glad. 
She picked up the crumbs that fell from the 
table ; for she was very hungry. The chil- 
dren scattered plenty of crumbs for her, 
and they were greatly delighted to see her 
hop up on their shoes. 

When the grass began to grow green 
again, in the spring, robin flew away into 
the woods, and made a neat little nest in 
the bushes, and laid three pretty blue eggs. 
Out of these eggs came little birds ; and 
robin fed them, like a careful mother. She 
did not come into the house, but she would 
often perch on a tree by the window, and 
sing the children a pretty song. 

When winter comes, the robins fly away 
to a warmer country, because they do not 
like to have their bare toes on the snowy 
ground. But this little robin red-breast re- 
membered the good friends that had taken 
care of her ; and when the weather Avas 
cold she hopped into the cottage, and 
brought a little mate along with her. The 
children clapped their hands for joy. They 



ROBINS. 47 

made robin and her mate a snug little roost 
in a warm corner. When they were eating, 
the birds would hop about on the table, and 
pick up the crumbs from the plates. '^ How 
cunning they lookup, with their bright little 
eyes,^' said the children. ''It seems as if 
these dear little birds wanted to speak to 
us." 

"If they cowM speak," answered the fa- 
ther, " they would tell us that they trust us, 
because we are kind to them. If men loved 
all the little creatures of the woods, and 
treated them gently, they would never be 
afraid of men." 

It seemed as if little robin red-breast un- 
derstood what the good father was saying; 
for she hopped into his hand, and warbled 
a song. 

And now I will tell you about two little 
Irish robins. They came hopping into a 
doctor's room, one day, and looked round 
for a place to build a nest. They took a 
fancy to a shelf in the corner of the room; 
but a small gallipot of medicine stood in 
their way. They pushed against it, and 
pushed against it, and finally, by working 
very hard, made it fall on the floor. They 
seemed much pleased when the gallipot was 
out of the way ; and they immediately be- 



48 ROBINS. 

gan to bring in straws, to make a nest. 
Many people came into the room, and looked 
at them ; but they did not mind that. The 
doctor threw wool and moss on the floor, 
and they would pick it up, to line their nest. 
In four days, they finished the nest, and the 
mother bird laid seven pretty little eggs in 
it. While she was setting on the eggs, her 
mate brought her food to eat, and sung 
pleasant songs to her. 

In twelve days, the little ones were chirp- 
ing about her ; and the father and mother 
both had as much as they could do to feed 
their large family. The kind doctor placed 
a pan of groats on the shelf, and the old 
birds used them freely, to feed their young. 
One day, they found their way into the 
pantry, and began to peck at the butter. 
First, they would carry a grain of corn to 
their little ones, and then a piece of butter. 
Being fed in this way, they soon became so 
fat, that they could hardly see out of their 
eyes. 

The old birds kept the nest very neat in- 
deed ; but the doctor observed that they 
always cleaned it with their bills ; and he 
did not like to have them pecking at his 
butter. He placed a cup of lard near them, 
and they seemed to like it just as well. 



ROBINS. 49 

The Oid birds and the young birds were 
all as sociable as possible. The mother 
would hop on the dinner table, to pick up 
the crumbs, and would stand still while the 
children patted her on the head. The fa- 
ther would fly about, and perch on the tops 
of the chairs, and twitter and chirp, as if it 
made him very happy to have his family 
so well taken care of. 

When the little ones were large enough, 
they flew away; but the old ones chose to stay 
with their friend the doctor. After a time, 
they made another nest, and soon had a fa- 
mily of six little ones. They fed them with 
groats and lard, as they had done the others; 
and they grew very fat and strong. But 
when they began to fly, two of them flut- 
tered over the grate, and fell into the fire, 
and were burned to death. 

The father and mother were very atten- 
tive to their little family. When not bring- 
ing them food, the father sat on a peg in 
the wall, and kept a look out on all that 
was going on. If a cat walked into the 
house, he would fly screamhig to his frieud, 
the doctor, and would not rest till the cat 
was driven away. He would then twitter 
and chirp, as if he were glad, and go back 
to his nest to look at his little ones. He 



50 KOBSNS. 

was very fond of milk, and often went into 
the pantry to drink from a bowl that was 
left open for him. The young ones flew 
away, when they were big enough; but all 
winter long, the old ones slept on pegs in 
the doctor's bed-room. In the morning, 
they would wake him up, by whirring 
round his pillow ; and then they would tap 
on the window to be let out into the fresh 
air. 

Next spring, the mother-bird built in the 
garden, and she never again made a nest in 
the house. She seemed to remember that 
two of her young ones had been burned to 
death there. The father-bird flew into the 
house for groats and lard, and milk. When 
he saw any cat coming near his nest, he 
would go screaming to his friend, the doc- 
tor, and fly along before him, to show him 
where the cat was. 

Is it not pleasant to be thus loved by the 
little creatures of the woods and fields 7 If 
we are always kind and gentle, every thing 
will love us. Our Heavenly Father made 
us all to live together in love, and to make 
each other happy. 




THE SPRING BIRDS 





ow we know that winter's done. 
For a troop of swallows come, 
Twitter, twitter, in the air, 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 



Oh, they are sweet pretty things 
Flying round with rapid wings, 
Twitter, twitter, in the air. 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 



The swallow knows no other tune, 
But always sings to May and June, 
Twitter, twitter, in the air, 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere, 
u 4 



62 THE SPRING BIRDS. 

In the barn she builds her nest, 
In the corner she Hkes best, 
Twitter, twitter, in the air, 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 

See ! she took a hair just now, 
From the back of MooUy cow. 
Twitter, twitter, in the air. 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 

If the sheep should drop some wool, 
She will give it many a pull ; 
Twitter, twitter, in the air. 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 

From the hen she gets a feather, 
And she weaves the whole together; 
Twitter, twitter, in the air. 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 

But when her little ones can fly, 
They bid us all a kind good-bye ; 
Twitter, twitter, in the air, 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere, 



THE SPRING BIRDS. 



53 



Swallows come with the first spring day, 
And with summer they go away; 
Twitter, twitter, in the air, 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 

Poor little swallows have to go ; 
They do not like the frost and snow; 
They could not twitter in the air, 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 

But when spring comes with sun and raiu, 
The swallows will come hack again; 
Twitter, twitter, in the air. 
Twitter, twitter, everywhere. 




LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY. 




HAT is the matter, Mary? 
Why do you throw your 
pretty patch-Avork on the 
floor, and stamp upon it 
so?'' 

Mary's cheeks were very 
red. She felt ashamed 
that her mother should see her behave so. 
She wanted some excuse : and she said, ^^ It 
is very ugly patchwork, mother ; very ugly 
indeed. The needle is very ugly, too. It 
pricks my fingers every minute. 

'' The needle is not naughty, but my lit- 
tle girl is not good-natured," said her mo- 
ther, ^' You push your needle in a hurry, 
and that makes it prick your finger." 

^^ I do not love to sew. May I get my 
playthings/" asked little Mary. Her mo- 
ther told her she might get them. So Mary 
brought out her Avooden lion, and her littit* 



LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY. 55 

china lamb, and her doll, and a little milk- 
maid with a churn. Mary twitched the 
string that made the milk-maid churn, and 
it broke. Then she could not raise her arm 
up and down any more. 

Mary began to cry quite loud. ^^ What 
is the matter?" asked her mother. 

^'This is a very ugly milk-maid, '^ said 
Mary ; ^' she will not churn any more." 

'^ The string broke, because you pulled it 
too hard," said her mother. 

Before Mary could dry up her eyes, her 
father, and her little cousins, George and 
Charlotte, came in. When her father ask- 
ed what made her eyes look so red, her 
mother said, ^' Little Mary is cross to-day." 
^'Oh no, I am not cross," said Mary ; and 
she was going to cry again. But her father 
spoke to her very kindly, and though her 
lip trembled a little, because she was very 
much grieved, she did not cry loud. 

She ran to find her very little pail, full of 
pretty popping-corn, that she might show it 
to her cousins. Charlotte gave her a Httle 
swan and a piece of steel. The swan's mouth 
was made of magnet. Magnet loves steel, 
and always tries to go to it. They put the 
swan in a basin of water, and held the 
steel a little way from him. Then the bird 



56 LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY. 

began to swim toward the steel, because the 
magnet in his mouth wanted to get hold of 
it. It made Mary laugh to see the swan go 
round wherever the steel moved. She fas- 
tened a crumb of bread on the steel, and 
held it to him, and called, '' Come, biddy, 
come.'' The bird went after the bread, just 
as he would if he had been alive and hun- 
gry. Charlotte told her that if she held it 
too near the swan, the magnet would take 
hold of the steel. 

George and Charlotte went into the next 
room, to play with the bow and arrow, and 
httle pail of corn. While they were there, 
Mary held the steel too near the bird, and 
the magnet and steel fastened together, like 
two pieces of wax. Mary screamed out. 
She forgot that when her father looked so 
kindly at her, she did not mean to cry any 
more that day. 

Her mother came running in, to see if she 
were hurt. 

'^ What ! is my little daughter crying 
again?" said she. 

" I did not mean to cry anymore," said 
Mary ; " but this swan is very ugly. He 
bit the piece of steel." 

'^The swan is not naughty," said her fa- 
ther : ''my own Mary is not good-natured. 



LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAT. oT 

Your cousin told you that the magnet and 
steel would fasten together, if you put them 
too near. You could easily have pulled it 
away; or you could have asked Charlotte 
to come and take it off. Would it not have 
been much better than to scream so T^ 

Mary held down her head, and said it 
would have been much better ; and she 
promised her father that she would try to 
be pleasant all day. But soon after, George 
came running with a dead butterfly, that 
he found in the window. He struck his 
foot against Mary's Uttle pail, and spilled 
all the corn on the floor. ^' Oh, dear," said 
Mary, ^' what an ugly pail !'' and she began 
to cry again. 

When George had picked up all the corn, 
and Mary was quiet once more, Charlotte 
asked her aunt if she would be so good as 
to cut out some houses, and trees, and dogs, 
from some nice white paper she held in her 
hand. Her aunt cut out a great many pret- 
ty things for her, and made some little boats 
and cocked-np hats for Mary. After that, 
Mary's father went into the librarjT-, and 
her mother went into her own room. When 
she went away, she said, ^^ You must be 
good children, and be very kind to each 



58 LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY. 



Other. 1 hope I shall not hear my Httle 
Mary cry again to-day." 

Mary's mother had told her, a great many 
times, never to put anything in her nose and 
ears. But when little girls are fretful, they 
feel very uneasy, and do not know what 
to do with themselves. Mary rolled up 
some of the paper, and stuffed it in her 
ears. But when she had done it, she was 
very much frightened ; for her mother had 
often told her it might hurt her very much. 
She ran to the foot of the stairs, and screamed 
as loud as she could, ^' Mother ! mother ! I 
have got a cocked-up hat in my ear !" 

Her father and mother went to her very 
quick. She called so loud, they were afraid 
she was half killed. But when they heard 
what she said, they laughed very much ; 
and that made Mary cry louder. Her mo- 
ther took the paper hat out of her ear, and 
wiped away her tears. When Mary looked 
round, she saw Charlotte sitting on her fa- 
ther's lap. She puckered up her lip, and 
looked at her mother with a very grieved 
face. Her mother smiled, and shook her 
finger at her ; so she did not cry again. 
But her voice trembled very much, as she 
said, ^^ Mother, cousin Charlotte is sitting 
on my father's lap." 



LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DAY. 59 

'' That is because Charlotte is a good girl 

in T' T ^'■^'" '^'^ her fathert "if mv 
ittle daughter will be good-natured, Z 

bea th t ' ^/ ^P' ^'^•" .^^^J^ ^''^Id not 
bear that. She loved her father very dear- 
ly; and when he was displeased Math her 
It made her feel very unhappy. She laTd 
her head in her mother's lap"Vnd sobbed 

mnfh ^'^/fr^^-n'^""' I assure," said her 
mother. " I will ask Susan to take her up 
to the nursery. She must be very ill to 
cry so much." ^ ' 

nm" ?b ^r^'i! ^^r"^ ."^^ *« the nursery. I 
am^not ill, but I do want to cry,"%aid 

She knew it was naughty to do so. In a 

fZ ZTT' '^' '^'P"^ her face quite dry, 
and looked up very pleasantly. A gentle^ 

SoThe?™y?',;^ *^"^-"^ ^ f-thlrand 
mother. He happened to look at one of 

f^hllZnu^''^';' ^"d her father asked 

fnVJ^lJ'^'r '? '^^^ ^* home, and show 

and nm ,f ^is httle girls. He thanked him, 

and put It m his pocket. Mary came very 

f^Z/r^'/^^fV ^"^ «he remembered her 

fil ^^"^/^i '¥ """'t "°t sit on his lap, 

f she cried. So she crept up softly behind 

t^ bnI'"^"urV'P^'^^'^' "t^ather'that is 
»^*y book." "I know it my dear: you 



60 LITTLE MARY IS CROSS TO-DaY. 

shall have it again ;'' said her father. He 
smiled at her, and put his hand on her little 
bright curls, and she felt very happy. 

When she saw the gentleman go away, 
with the picture-book in his pocket, she 
tried very hard to keep from crying. She 
shut her mouth tight, and winked her eyes, 
and would not let the tears come. When 
she looked up, she saw that her father was 
very much pleased with her, for trying to 
be a good girl. He took her in his lap, and 
kissed her, and said, "Now Mary is a good 
little daughter, because she did not cry, 
when she wanted to cry very much indeed.'' 

Mary said, ''I will try never to cry so 
much again, dear father. My playthings 
break, and you don't love me, and I feel 
very bad myself, when I am cross." 

She was a better little girl afterward. If 
she began to cry, she stopped herself, and 
said, '' I don't want mother to say again, 
^ Little Mary is cross to-day.' " 




LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB, 







ucY was a very kind little 
girl. She never struck the 
kitten, and when she rode 
out with her father, she 
never Avanted to whip the 
horse. When she was eat- 
ing her bread and milk, a 
hungry fly would sometimes light on the 
edge of the bowl, and try to drink. Little 
Lucy never knocked him with her spoon. 
She would say to him, 

'' Drink away, poor little fly, 
You raay drink, as well as I." 

One day, when spring weather came, and 
the sun was warm, and the grass green, a 
butterfly flew into the window, and lighted 
on a beautiful rose that was standing in the 
sunshine. Lucy jumped up, and clapped 
her handsj and said, ''Oh, what a pretty, 



62 LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB. 

pretty, pretty butterfly ! Mother, may I 
touch it?'' 

Her mother told her she could not touch 
him, without hurting him. She took down 
a large dead butterfly, that was pinned over 
the looking-glass, and told Lucy to put her 
finger on it. When she took her finger off*, 
it was all covered with fine meal from the 
butterfly's wings. Her mother told her that 
this meal was made of very small feathers, 
like the down on a bird ; but the feathers 
were so very, very small, that they could 
not be seen, without a magnifying glass. 

^^ Can the butterflies see them?" asked 
Lucy. 

^^ I suppose they can," replied her mo- 
ther; ^'but I do not know. I never was a 
butterfly; and so I cannot tell how much 
they can see with their little eyes." 

'' And when this meal comes oflTfrom their 
pretty wings, does it hurt them?" asked 
Lucy. 

^^I suppose it hurts them, as it hurts a 
bird to pull out his feathers," said her mo- 
ther ; '^ and besides that, they cannot fly as 
well, when the down is taken from their 
wings. It makes them lame." 

'' Then I will never touch a butterfly,'^ 
said Lucy. 



LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB. 63 

Lucy's grandfather lived in New Jersey. 
He was a good old duaker gentleman, and 
Lucy loved him very much. When the 
snow-ball bush was in blossom, he came to 
see her, and staid a whole week. Almost 
every evening, Lucy took a walk with her 
good grandfather, and she was a very hap- 
py little girl. One evening, they met a man 
who was driving some sheep and lambs. A 
chaise-wheel had passed over one of the lit- 
tle lambs, and hurt its leg so badly, that it 
walked very lame indeed. Lucy begged to 
carry the little lamb home, because it was 
too lame to trot along after the mother. 

^^I will buy it for thee, my dear child," 
said the old gentleman. '' Thou art as gen- 
tle as a little lamb thyself. But I think the 
little one will grieve for its mother ; so I will 
buy the old sheep too.'' 

He bought the sheep, and led her home 
by a string. Little Lucy carried the lame 
lamb in her arms. Her mother spread a 
nice warm blanket in a basket, and Lucy 
laid the lamb on it, and fed it with warm 
milk, from her own little china bowl. In a 
few weeks it was quite well. 

One morning, the old gentleman called 
Lucy to him, and kissed her, and told her 
he must bid her farewell before she went to 



64 LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB. 

school, for he should be gone to New Jersey 
before she came back. Lucy jumped up ii? 
his lap, and hugged him, and kissed him, 
and said, ''Oh, do come again soon, grand- 
father. I love dearly to have you come." 

When she put on her cape-bonnet to go 
to school, she staid round the good old grand- 
father, and leaned on his knees, and looked 
up in his face. '' Poor Lucy," said her mo- 
ther, ''it comes very hard for her to part 
with grandfather." 

"I must Avalk to school with the little 
darling myself," said the old man. And he 
took her hand, and she went jumping along, 
as happy as a kitten. 

While Lucy was in school, her father 
brought the chaise to the door, for the grand- 
father to ride home. And up trotted the 
old sheep and the little lamb, as if they had 
come to say good-bye to their old friend. 

^' Look at the pretty creatures," said the 
old gentleman. The father looked, and 
smiled when he saw a small bell fastened 
to a neat little collar round the lamb's neck. 
On the bell was written "Little Lucy's 
Lamb." 

" Tell my little darling," said the grand- 
father, " that I bought the bell for her, be- 



LITTLE LUCY AND HER LAMB. 65 

cause she is always so kind to every body 
and every thing." 

When Lucy came home, she Avas greatly 
dehghted with her lamb's collar and bell. 
The little creature became very fond of her, 
and used to follow her all round, like a dog. 
When the lamb grew to be a sheep, she had 
many a warm pair of stockings made of 
her wool. 




LITTLE FRANCIS, 




NCE there was a little boy 
named Francis. He was 
a very lively child; always 
full of his talk. When he 
Was two years old, his mo- 
ther bought him a china 
bowl, covered with pic- 
tures. He thought the men and women on 
it were alive. When he ate his bread and 
milk, he would talk to them. They did 
not answer him. But their mouths were 
painted as if they were open ; so he began 
to laugh, and offer them a spoonful of his 
supper. '^ Take some — take some. Why 
don't you eat it?" 

When he saw that the figures on the bowl 
did not move, he turned round and offered 
the spoonful of milk to his mother. If his 
mother drank it, and said she loved it, his 
eyes would sparkle, and he would laugh for 



LITTLE FRANCIS. 67 

joy. He loved dearly to give away a part 
of everything he had. If his mother gave 
him an apple, he would always ask to have 
it cut in five pieces, and give one to each of 
his brothers. And when his mother filled his 
bowl with milk, he would run about the 
house as fast as his little feet could go, to 
give all the children a drink. 

Francis was very kind to animals, too. 
A poor dog used to go by his father's house 
sometimes. He did not have half enough 
to eat, and he was so lean that he looked 
like a mere skin full of bones. When Fran- 
cis was very small, before he learned to 
talk very well, his little heart was full of 
pity for the poor starved animal. The first 
time he saw him, he called out, ^^ Mamma, 
there's a poor dog that gets no dinner. He 
looks like a good boy of a dog. Do give 
him something to eat." His mother gave 
him some pieces of meat, and it made him 
very happy to go out and feed the hungry 
dog. 

One day, the dog was going by, and they 
could not find any bones or cold meat for 
him. Francis was in great trouble. At 
last, he ran and took the plate of bones away 
from the cat. ^'She is a great fat puss," 
5 



68 LITTLE FRANCIS. 

said he : ^^she gets a dinner every day, and 
the dog don't.'' 

The beggar dog came to know his Uttle 
friend so well, that he never went by the 
house without stopping to see him. If he 
did not come out soon, he would scratch on 
the gate, and bark. 

One day, when Francis went to walk 
with his father, they met a blind man, who 
was led by a little white dog. The dog 
could not speak to ask for money for his 
poor master ; but he made a whining noise, 
and scratched on the ground with his paws. 

It pleased Francis to see the dog so good 
to the poor old man. He stooped down, 
and patted his head, and talked to him as if 
he had been a child. He gave the bhnd 
man all the coppers he had, and gave the 
dog the roll of bread and butter he was eat- 
ing. ^' Take it, good little puppy," said he : 
^^I wish I had another roll; you should 
have it." 

The dog ate the bread, and licked his lips 
as if he thought it was good. Then he 
came and rubbed his head against the little 
boy, and looked up in his face, as if he 
wanted to speak. This made the lively 
little fellow laugh. ^' See, papa! see pa- 



LITTLE FRANCIS. 69 

pa!" shouted he; '^ he is saying, Thank 
yon, Francis. Have you got another roll?'' 

The blind man said he had another dog 
at home, that he would sell very cheap. 
The father told him to bring it to his house^ 
and if it pleased him, he would buy it. He 
brought it the next day ; and Francis liked 
it so well, that his father bought it, and 
gave it to him. The cat did not like this 
very well. She put up her back, and spit 
at the dog ; and when she saw Francis take 
him up in his arms, she walked out of the 
house. 

But the dog and cat soon came to be good 
friends together. They ate their dinner out 
of the same pan. When they had done, 
they would lie down on the grass, and roll 
about, and box one another's ears in play. 
This was great sport for Francis. Some- 
times, he would lie down on the grass with 
them, and they would tumble over him, 
and jump and frolic about every way. If 
he set a little ball rolling, they would both 
scamper after it, and the dog would bring 
it back in his mouth. He taught his dog to 
stand on his hind legsand beg; and to carry 
his basket in his mouth, when he went into 
the garden to help his mother pick peas and 
beans. 



70 LITTLE FRANCIS. 

But though Francis loved his dog so 
much, he did not neglect his cat. As soon 
as he was dressed in the morning, he would 
seat himself in his little arm-chair, and ask 
for his bowl of milk. Then he would call 
^^ Puss, puss ! Bijou, Bijou V and the cat 
and dog would both come running, and 
stand one on each side, while he gave them 
some of his breakfast. Sometimes he 
would take the cat in his lap, and she would 
lick his hand and purr. Then the happy 
little fellow would laugh, and say, ^^ Mam- 
ma, hear puss talk, she is whispering to me ; 
and I guess she says, Good morning, Fran- 
cis." 

It was a pleasure to see this little boy's 
face. His eyes were so clear, and bright, 
and blue, and he always looked so happy. 
He was always full of play, but he was 
never rude or noisy. When the sun had 
gone down behind the hills, and it was cool 
enough to play out of doors, he loved dearly 
to have his father run after him. He would 
go round the house, as fast as his little feet 
could fly. Sometimes, he Avould hit his toes 
against a stone, and fall down on the grass. 
But he did not mind that. He Avould jump 
up and run again. When he got round the 
corner, he would peep back, to see if father 



LITTLE FRANCIS. 71 

was near enough to catch him. It was a 
pretty sight to see his eyes sparkUng with 
fim, and his gold-coloured hair blowing in 
the wind. One day, when he came run- 
ning round the corner very quick, the kitten 
came running against him. She was fright- 
ened, and put up her back, and hissed at 
him. How Francis did laugh ! 

He loved to frolic out of doors, but he al- 
ways came in as soon as his father and mo- 
ther thought it was best. He would walk 
right in, and seat himself in his little arm- 
chair, and say, ^'Now will you tell me a 
story?'' If his father said yes, he would 
climb into his lap, and lay his little curly 
head on father's shoulder, and be as quiet 
and happy as a little lamb lying on the 
grass with the old sheep. He was so fond 
of hearing stories, that he was not always 
ready to go to bed, when the proper time 
came. When he had his night-gown on, he 
would want to kiss every body two or three 
times over. And when his mother said, 
'^ Come, P^ancis, it is time to go to bed, and 
shut your little peepers," he would say, 
''Please let me stay a minute. Papa can- 
not do without his little boy." Sometimes, 
he would say, '' Puss wants me to stay a 
little longer." 



72 LITTLE FRANCIS. 

One night, when his mother was ready to 
lead him to bed, he said, '^ My foots are 
cold. Let me sit down a minute, and warm 
them in the moonshine." It made all his 
brothers laugh to see him sit down on the 
floor, where the moon shone brightly on his 
little white toes. As he sat looking up at 
the sky, he said, '^ The moon is a very bright 
thing. Mother, what was the moon made 
for?'' His brother Henry said, ''It was 
made to warm your toes." 

Little Francis did not smile, he sat look- 
ing up at the window, winking his eyes 
slowly, as if he were thinking of something. 
At last, he said, " It looks very bright and 
pleasant up there. If we are good, perhaps 
father and mother, and little Francis and 
Henry, and all of us, will go to heaven to- 
gether. I should love to have hold of dear 
mother's hand, when I go." 

His mother stooped and kissed him, and 
said, " Take mother's hand now, and go to 
bed, like a good boy." He took her hand, 
and she laid him on his pillow, and in a 
few minutes he slept as sound as a mouse. 




THE AUTUMN BIRD. 




HE.v the summer is getting 
old, 
And nights and mornings growing cold, 
Then comes and sits upon the spray 
The friendly little chick-a-day. 

She is a chubby little bird, 

And all day long her song is heard, 

Her friendly chick-a-day, 

Chick-a-day, day, day. 

She never minds a cloudy sky, 
But ever singeth cheerily. 

Her friendly chick-a-day, 

Chick-a-day, day, day. 



74 THE AUTUMN BIRD. 

When cold winter draweth near, 
Dearly do I love to hear 

Her friendly chick-a-day, 
Chick-a-day, day, day. 

Blessings on the happy bird, 
With her pleasant little word, 
Her friendly chick-a-day, 
Chick-a-day, day, day. 




HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE. 




ITTLE George lived in Bos- 
ton. He was very fond of 
flowers. When the spring 
time came, he always used 
to say, '' Oh, mother, how 
I do wish we lived in the 
country." Every morning 
and evening, he went to walk on Boston 
Common. If he happened to see a Dande- 
lion, or a White Clover, he would break it 
off, and exclaim, ''Oh, mother, see what a 
beautiful flower !" 

People who live in cities have not much 
ground to spare. George's father gave him 
a small piece, about as big as an apron, and 
he liked to be digging in it half his time. 
At first, he put into the earth all flowers that 
were given him, and then he was sorry be- 
cause the hot sun made them wither. But 
his mother bought him some Sweet Peas 

X 



/O HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE. 

and some Lupine seed, and showed him 
how to plant them. She told him they 
would not come up for many days, and he 
must wait patiently, and not touch them at 
all. It is very foolish for little boys to fret, 
because things do not grow as fast as they 
want them to. Fretting never makes any 
thing grow. 

George was very good. Sometimes he 
looked at his garden, but he never touched 
it. One day, his mother told him she would 
show him something as pretty as the pretti- 
est flower. So little George put on his hat, 
and ran off" to walk with his mother, won- 
derhig what he was going to see. They 
stopped at a house where he had never been 
before. A gentleman who lived there show- 
ed them a gold snuff-box, with a very beau- 
tiful picture on the cover. While George 
was looking at the picture, the gentleman 
touched the box, and the cover opened. A 
beautiful bird rose up from the box, and 
shook himself, and turned his head round, 
and began to sing. He was very small ; 
not bigger than a thimble. His feathers 
were smooth and glossy, and the colours as 
bright as a butterfly. His song was so clear 
and sweet, that George thought it was a 
real bird from the woods. But it was not 



HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE. 77 

alive. It was a little machine, like a watch, 
A watch moves its hands, and keeps mak- 
ing a ticking noise, though it is not alive. 
So this little bird moved and sung, though it 
was only a machine. 

George was not old enough to understand 
how this was done. But he was delighted 
with the beautiful bird, and wanted to look 
at it all day. After the bird had sung his 
songs three or four times over, the gentle- 
man shut the box, and said he had not time 
to show it any more. George wished very 
much to see it longer ; but he knew it was 
not polite to tease. He thanked the gentle- 
man for his kindness, and bade him good 
bye. 

The next morning, his father took him to 
ride in the country. There he saw ever so 
many flowers, and had plenty of sky-room 
to fly his kite with his little cousins. One 
day, he saw two pretty little squirrels seat- 
ed on a bough, and never was any little boy 
so glad. He wanted to catch the squirrels 
and carry them home. But his father told 
him they would not be happy shut up in a 
box ; and if they ran about in the city streets, 
they would get killed. Good little George 
thought he had rather leave them to be hap 
py in the fields. 



78 HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE. 

Afterward, George saw a white hen, with 
a whole brood of Httle chickens. She was 
scratching very busily, to find food for hei 
little ones. One chicken was brown, and 
all the rest were white. George thought 
the brown one had been out in the sun too 
much. He said, '' See father, how that lit- 
tle chicken is tanned !*' His cousins laugh- 
ed, and his father told him that the sun 
tanned little girls and boys, but it did not 
tan chickens. George saw a thousand plea- 
sant things, and ran about, till he was tired. 
When he went home to Boston, he wanted 
to go to bed directl}^. 

The next morning, he went to look at his 
garden ; but he did not dig in it. He asked 
his mother only once when she thought the 
seed would come up. He built cob-houses, 
and looked at his little picture books all day, 
without troubling his mother at all. He 
watched his garden every da3r. He wished 
the flowers would make haste and come up ; 
but he never teased about it. In a formight, 
he saw little green things above the ground, 
and he ran into the house to tell of it. Every 
body was glad to see him so pleased. They 
all loved him ; he was such a good-natured 
boy. 

The next day, when George went to look 



HAPPY LITTLE GEORGE. 79 

at his Lupines, he found a pretty flower-pot 
standing in the middle of his garden. In it 
was a rose-bush, with three beautiful roses, 
and three buds on it. Happy Httle George 
clapped his hands, and shouted for joy. His 
father heard him, and he opened the window 
and said, ^'That rose-bush is for you, my 
son ; because you have been such a good 
boy, and have never teased about your gar- 
den." 

^^ Thank you, father," said George; ^^now 
I can carry a rose to school for little Mary." 

The flowers grew finely in George's gar- 
den. The bees came there to ask the flow- 
ers for honey, and the butterflies came for a 
breakfast. Almost every day George went 
to school with his little hand full of blos- 
soms. And when he met a little ragged 
child, that had no garden, he was always 
glad to give him a flower. 




THE DONKEY 




HEY say the donkey is a 
very stupid animal; but 
he is not stupid. Men beat 
hinij and kick him, and 
keep him half starved ; 
and that makes him not 
'^imi!^' care about any thing; and 
so he seems stupid. But he is bright enough, 
when he is treated with gentleness and love. 
It makes all creatures bright, and lively, and 
happy, to be treated kindly. A donkey will 
do any thing for those he loves ; but he does 
not care to please those who beat him and 
abuse him. 

Thousands of miles from here, there is a 
beautiful sunny country, called Spain. The 
poor, hard-working people there are called 
peasants. In that country, there are many 
rocks and hills, and the donkey steps very 
safe and sure-footed among the stony paths. 



THE DONKEY. gj 

In Spain, almost every body has a donkey 
Rich people have them for the ladies and 
children to ride on, because they are so easi- 
ly mounted, and step so softly and so gently 
bometimes you will see a plump little don- 
key, covered with handsome scarlet cloth 

He wil'r/'"^' '^!!^'^" "-^'"g «" his back 
He will step round so carefully and softlv 

that even the little baby is not afraidTand 
he will stop close to the high step, th^t the 
lit le ones may get off his back safely, and 
not fall and hurt themselves 

When the poor Spanish peasant has been 
hard at work all day, and his donkey has 
been hard at work too, they come home 

lZVZ\r^ '''' poor jack Jss can hSy 
carry the heavy panniers on his back. But 
the children stand at the door, watching for 
him ; and when they see the good creatum 
come slowly along the road^ha^^Cds 
down from the hill, they throw up their 
caps and set up a merry shout. The dor^. 
key hears them, and he pricks up hi? W 

W hen he comes up to the cottage door thev 

h?sir Tr"\"" r'^' ^"^ P^^^ hi'mZ 
thJv r '1 ''""° h™ '^ome of the bread 

c^ntr. f '^■''' r^" ^"PP«^^' ^"^ 'f they 
can liu<I a turnip, they run gladly to give it 



82 THE DONKEY. 

to him. He eats from their hands, and lays 
his head on their shoulders, and tries, all Jie 
can, to say, '' I love you, dear children.' 

Oh no, the poor donkey is not stupid. It 
is very pleasant to him to be loved, and he 
gives back love to those who treat him well. 
I will tell you what a Spanish donkey did 
once. His master was a poor man that car- 
ried milk to market. He did not ride into 
the city in a cart, as our milk-men do. 
The milk was put into bottles, and packed 
close in panniers, that were thrown across 
the donkey's back. The peasant walked 
along beside the donkey and his load, and 
thus they trudged to market together, every 
day, for many years. The donkey knew 
his master and mistress, just as well as they 
knew each other. He would come joyfully 
when they called his name, and feed from 
their hands, and follow them all round, like 
a dog. He loved them, and would do any 
thing for them. 

Now it chanced, one day, that the peasant 
was very ill, and he could not leave his bed. 
^^ What will my customers do for milk?" 
said he; ^' they will expect me, and will 
not know what is the reason I cannot come.'' 

'^ I cannot go and leave you alone," said 
his wife; '^for we have no neighbours to 



WHO STOLE THE BIRD's MEST ? 131 

A little boy hung down his head, 
And went and hid behind the bed; 
For he stole that pretty nest, 
From poor little yellow breast ; 
And he felt so full of shame, 
He didn't like to tell his name. 




cc 



THE LITTLE WHITE LAMB AND THE "^ 
LITTLE BLACK LAMB. 




M' 



■A.RY Lee is a kind little 
girl. She loves every 
-^'-^ thing, and when she 
sees any creature hurt, it 
makes her cry. _ When 
Mary was a babe, just big 
^^?>»«'->v. > enough to sit on the floor 
alone, herlfather bought her a lamb. At 
first, she did not like the looks of the wool. 
She was afraid to put her fingers on the 
lamb's back. The httle lamb said, "Baa! 
Baa!" and Mary cried. She did not know 
that was the way little lambs talk. But 
very soon Mary loved the lamb 

When her brother George ask ed her, ' ' What 
is little Mary'?" she would say, ''Ma-wee 
is mother's pet lamb." And when he asked 
her "What is the httle lamb 7" she would 



say 



The lamb is Ma-wee's friend 



ir " The lamb is Ma-wee s irienu. 
Every night, the lamb stood beside her, 



THE TWO LITTLE LAMBS. 133 

when she ate her bread and milk ; and she 
fed him with her little spoon. Sometimes, 
when she drew her little cart about the room, 
the lamb ran after her; and oh, how Mary 
would clap her hands and laugh. Nancy, 
the nurse, would laugh, too ; for she loved 
little Mary, and was pleased to see her 
happy. 

Every day, the little lamb grew bigger ; 
and every day the little girl grew bigger. 
One day, George led his little sister out to 
the barn, and there she found two little baby 
lambs. One of them was a black lamb, and 
one was a white lamb. 

Mary ran into the house and told her nurse, 
Nancy, that her lamb had two baby lambs, 
and one was black and the other white. 
Nancy was a black woman. She had a lit- 
tle boy named Thomas. George and Mary 
were white children. Thomas was a black 
child. Thomas loved George and Mary, 
and George and Mary loved Thomas. 

Nancy went out to the barn with the chil- 
dren, to see the lambs. Little Mary said, 
^' What makes one lamb white, and the othei 
lamb black?" 

Nancy told her, *'God made the white 
lambs, and the black lambs. God loves them 
both, and made them to love each other." 



134 THE TWO LITTLE LAMBS. 

Then Mary said, ^^I am my mother's white 
lamb, and Thomas is Nancy's black lamb; 
and God loves us both." 

When they all went into the house, Nancy 
gave the children a cake and an orange; and 
George and Mary said, '^ Give Thomas one, 
too." 

When Mary was sleepy, Nancy took her 
in her arms, and rocked her, and sung pretty 
songs to her. 

The little girl said, '^1 love my father, 
and my mother, and Nancy, and George and 
Thomas. I love you dearly, Nancy. You 
are always good to me. God loves George, 
and Thomas, and me, when we are good 
children. And God loves the little white 
lamb and the little black lamb, when they 
are good lambs. I suppose lambs are al- 
ways good. But little children are naughty 
sometimes. Henry Pratt struck good little 
Thomas, and called him a nigger ; and that 
made me cry. My little white lamb loves 
the black lamb; but Henry Pratt struck 
good little Thomas, and called him names. 
That was very naughty." 

Then the little chatter-box put her arms 
round Nancy's neck, and went to sleep. 
Nancy kissed Mary's cheek, and covered her 
up all warm. 



MAY DAY 



V^^WW%/^^N^«^SAAA^M'^^ 




LOUISE was only five years 
old ; but she was a good 
scholar, and behaved 
like a lady. She had al- 
ways lived in the city; 
and she did not know 
much about sheep and 
cows, and flowers, and green grass. She 
knew the fragrant Geraniums by sight, for 
she had seen them in her mother's window. 
But she did not know how pretty the Vio- 
lets are, when they first come out, and stay 
close to the ground, for fear the cold winds 
will blow them over. She had never seen the 
Wild Lilac, hidden under the leaves of last 
autumn ; or the beautiful blue flowers of the 
Liverwort, smiling all alone among the dry 
grass. 

Louise wanted very much to see the 
pretty wild flowers. Her mother told her 



136 MAY DAY. 

she might go into the country, to spend 
May day with her aunt, if she would try 
hard, for one week, to cure herself of a bad 
habit. *' What is my bad habit?" asked 
Louise. 

^^ You make good resolutions, and then 
break them," replied her mother. 

^' Great folks talk about resolutions," said 
Louise. ^' Little girls, like me, do not talk 
about resolutions." 

'' Yes they do," said her mother : ^' My 
little Louise told me yesterday morning, 
that she would break herself of teasing; 
that she would not ask me twice for any 
thing, all day. I told her that was a very 
good resolution, and I hoped she would keep 
it. That same little girl, before it was 
night, wanted to go to see her cousin Ann ; 
and when I told her it was not proper, be- 
cause it rained, she teased to go in the omni- 
bus. That little girl broke her good resolu- 
tion." 

'' I know who it was. It was I, mother. 
I remember it very well." 

'' There was a little girl, too," continued 
her mother, '' who rose from the breakfast 
table this morning, and said, ' To-day, I 
will not say I can't. Whatever I am told 
to do to-day, I will not say I can't.' A 



MAY DAY. 137 

spelling les'son was given her, and she for- 
got her resolution, and said, ^I can't get 
that, it is so long.' She was asked to hold 
a skein of silk, and she said, ' I can't hold 
it, because it makes my hands ache.' " 

^' That was I, too," said Louise. ^^ I am 
Borry I did not keep my word. I will try 
very hard not to say * I can't' again to-day." 

^' It is better to say, ^ I will try,' than to 
speak so very certainly, as you sometimes 
do, my daughter. If you feel a little afraid 
of breaking your promise, you wll be more 
hkely to keep it," replied her mother. 

^^ I will try," said Louise. 

A little while after, her mother told her 
to ask the boy to bring some coal. Louise 
began to say, ''Mother, I ca — ;" but she 
stopped, and put her hand on her lips, 
and laughed, as she said, '' Only think, 
mother ! I was going to say, ' I can't get 
up, because my lap is full of patch- work ;' 
but I can. I am glad I did not quite for- 
get." 

Louise did try very hard to keep her res- 
olutions, during the whole week ; and her 
mother told her she should go into the 
country to spend May day. 

'' If I make a good resolution every week, 
and try to keep it, I shall soon get to be a 



138 MAY DAY. 

very good girl ; shall I not, dear mother T 
said Louise. 

^^ I think you will, my daughter," replied 
her mother. ^'If I were you, I would try 
not to feel in too great a hurry about any- 
thing, the first week in May ; and I would 
resolve not to be fretful about anything, all 
the time I staid with my aunt." 

'^ That is just what I was thinking," said 
Louise ; ^^ and I will try to do it." 

Louise went into the country on Mon- 
day, and Tuesday was May morning. The 
children were all going into the fields early; 
and when they knew a little girl from the 
city wished to go with them, they said they 
would call for her. Eighteen or twenty 
children, with baskets in their hands, came 
to the door at five o'clock in the morning. 
Louise was not quite dressed, and she be- 
gan to speak in a fret, to the woman who 
was buttoning her clothes. But she re- 
membered her good resolution, and said, 
^' Will you be so good as to fasten my 
frock as quick as you can? The little girls 
are waiting for me." 

Her aunt had made a pretty little basket 
of moss, and trimmed it with pink ribbon, 
on purpose for her. It was not so cold as i 
sometimes is on May day. It was warm 



MAY DAY. 



139 



and sunny. Louise soon filled her basket 
with Violets, and Anemones, and Wild Lu- 
pine leaves. They made a pretty wreath 
of flowers and crowned one of the little girls 
Queen of May. Then they all said they 
would go down to the meadow, to get some 
Cowslips. Louise did not know that mea- 
dows were very soft and muddy. She step- 
ped in so deep, that she soiled her stockings 
badly, and came very near losing her bas- 
ket. She felt a little impatient at first, but 
she did not forget her good resolution. 

Her aunt had written a verse neatly, on 
a pretty bit of note paper, with a wreath of 
flowers painted round it. She tied it with 
rose-coloured ribbon, and put it in the moss 
basket. Louise did not see it, till she be- 
gan to arrange her flowers in bunches. 
She was much pleased when she opened it, 
and read, 

The butterfly now spreads her wing, 
The httle birds begin to sing, 
And children are as glad as they, 
To welcome in delightful May. 

After the happy little band had filled 
their baskets with flowers, Louise tied her 
poetry into the handle, and they all began 
to move homeward. The little girls stopped 



140 MAY DAY. 

and left their baskets at the houses of friends, 
as they went along. Louise saved hers for 
her dear mother. She was looking at the 
pretty loaded basket, thinking how much it 
would delight her, when the handle broke, 
and all the flowers fell into the dusty road. 
When Louise saw the CowsUps she had 
toiled after so muchj all covered with dirt, 
she came very near breaking her resolu- 
tion; but she did not. She only said, ^'Oh 
dear, I wish the handle had been sewed 
better ; but I cannot help it now." 

The children were all willing to give her 
some of their flowers. They said they 
liked that little girl, because she was so pa- 
tient and good natured. The basket was 
soon mended and filled again. When 
Louise gave it to her mother, she said, ^' 1 
was very happy May -day. The bright 
sun and the pretty flowers made me glad. 
But the best of all was, though I broke my 
basket, I did not once break mv resolution.'' 




LITTLE JANE. 




iTTLE Jane was about four 
years old. She was a very 
neat little girl, and she had 
a kind heart. But little 
Jane was apt to fret. If 
her brother George came 
near her, and tickled her 
ear with a feather, she won Id toss back her 
curls, and hunch up her shoulders, and say, 
'' I do wish George would let me alone.'' 

George loved his sister dearly ; but he 
was a merry boy, and he liked to plague her 
sometimes. One day, he had been playing 
with some boys, and he felt very happy in- 
deed. He came into the house, laughing 
and jumping, and began to sing, 



" Little Jane 

Went up the lane, 
To hang- her clothes a drying; 

She called to Nell, 

To ring- the bell, 
For .Tack and Gill were dying." 



142 LITTLE JANE. 

His Sister was sitting on a cricket, sewing a 
doll's gown. She gave her thread a twitch, 
and said, ^'Mother, will you speak to oui 
George ? He is always singing about little 
Jane." 

^^ What harm does it do, to sing about lit- 
tle Jane?" asked her mother. 

^^I do not like to have him sing, little 
Jane, little Jane, all the time. There, mo- 
ther, he has begun again. Will you speak 
to him ?" 

Before there was time to speak to the 
rogue, he ran out of doors, looking back all 
the time, and singing, ^' Little Jane went up 
the lane." Jane had half a mind to cry; 
but she concluded she would not. She 
knew George loved her, and only did such 
things for play. 

She put her doll in the cradle, and began 
to sing lullaby. All at once she stopped, 
and said, ^ ^ Mother, I wish I was a butterfly." 

«^ Why do you wish that, my little girl7" 
said her mother. 

^'Because, if I was a butterfly, my bro- 
ther George would not tickle my ears, and 
sing, ^ Little Jane.' " 

^' But then you would not have any bro- 
ther George," said her mother; ^' and you 
would be sorry for that" 



LITTLE JANE. 143 

" Yes I should be sorry for that," said Ut- 
ile Jane. ^'I do love George, if he only 
would not plague me so, and sing baby 
songs to me. But if I was a butterfly, I 
should have pretty, bright wings ; I should 
fly all over the fields ; and I should sleep 
on the flowers." 

Her mother smiled, and said, " Butter- 
flies have no mothers to tuck up their beds 
nicely, and kiss them, and bid them good 
night." 

Little Jane sighed. ^^ I should not like to 
be a butterfly," she said. She sat still a 
minute, and then said, ^'But I should like 
to be a mouse ; I am sure I should." 

^^ Why should you like to be a mouse?" 

^' Because I should have such sleek, soft 
fur, and such cunning little black eyes. I 
should so love to do mischief in the pantry, 
and then slip away into a hole, when I 
heard somebody coming. It would not be 
naughty for a mouse to do so, would it, 
mother?" 

'' No, it would not be naughty for a mouse 
to do so; because a mouse does not know- 
any better," said her mother: ^' But don't 
you like better to be a nice little girl, who 
knows what is right, and who has a mother 
to love her when she does right ?" 



144 LITTLE JANE. 

'^ Yes I do," said little Jane : ^^ I suppose, 
too, the cat would catch me, if I were a 
mouse." She looked very sober, at thoughts 
of being caught by the cat ; but her face 
brightened up, as she said, "Oh, I should 
like to be a bird ! Then I should have 
wings, and fly about after straws to make a 
nest. Such a pretty, pretty nest, as I would 
make ; so soft and warm. I should like to 
sleep in a bird's nest." 

" But perhaps the boys would steal your 
nest," said her mother; "or perhaps the 
gunners would shoot you, when you were 
flying. Then you know you would have 
no nice little chair to sit in, and no mother 
to bring you your porringer of bread and 
milk." 

" I should be sorry for that," said little 
Jane: "I should not care much about the 
bread and milk; for if I were a bird, I 
could pick as many cherries ofl" the trees, 
as I wanted. But I should want somebody 
to give me my breakfast ; and I should like 
to have a brother George to speak to, though 
he does keep singing, little Jane, little Jane 
I was going to say I wished I was a kitten ; 
but then I should grow a great cat. I be- 
lieye, mother, I had rather be your little 
Jane, than any thing else, after all ; for 



LITTLE JANE. 



145 



father loves me, and you love me, and 
George loves me ; and if I grow such a wo- 
man as you are, every body will love me." 
The little chatter-lDox did not talk any 
more that time ; for she heard her brother 
in the next room, and she went to nlay 
Puss-in-the-corner with him. 




MY SISTER MARY 



A Talk "between an Uncle and his Niece. 




UNCLE. 

ouiSE, Mary must live with me, 
And I'll give you, for company, 
A pretty bird with glossy wings, 
That hops about and sweetly sings. 
Her garden filled with lovely flowers. 
Shall have two honey-suckle bowers, 
And golden fish, in sparkling water, 
If she will come and be my daughter. 



LOUISA. 

But she's my sister, uncle Carey; 
My own sweet loving sister Mary. 
I cannot spare her for a day ; 
She helps me at my work and play. 



.■^2..^"*-? 




MY SISTER MARY. 147 

How I should crj if she were gone! 
I could not dress my doll alone. 
Therefore, dear uncle, I do pray 
You will not make her go away. 
Good cousin Jane may live with you ; 
She has no little sister Loo. 
You may give her the bright Canary, 
And let me keep dear sister Mary. 
I'm very sure she will not go 
From little Loo who loves her so 

UNCLE. 

Now blessings on your gentle heart ! 
I should be loth to see ye part. 
You need not cling to her in fear; 
You shall not lose your playmate, dean 
My words were merely meant to prove 
How dearly you your sister love. 
I will give her tke bright Canary, 
And she shall be your sister Mary 



10 




DISCONTENTED DORA 




ORA Manning was rich, and 
her cousin Jane Loring was 
poor. If Dora wanted any 
thing that could be bought 
with money, her parents 
could afford to buy it for 
her. But little Dora was 
not happy with her playthings, while her 
cousin Jane was almost always happy. Do- 
ra wanted every thing she saw, and was 
never willing to make any thing for herself. 
One day her mother bought her a beauti- 
ful large French doll. Dora admired it 
very much, and went directly to show it to 
her cousin Jane. 

'' It is sweet and pretty," said Jane: ^^ I 

wonder whether I could make one like it.'' 

Her mother told her she could not make 

one as handsome; but with her help, she 

thought she could make a very pretty one. 



DISCONTENTED DORA. 149 

She bought a head for her, and showed her 
how to make the body, and stuff it. Then 
she gave her some pretty pieces of caUco 
and silk, to dress it. For four or five days, 
Jane employed all the time she was not at 
school, in making and dressing her doll. 
She was very happy ; for busy people are 
always happy. When the doll was done, 
it was really very pretty. It was not so 
handsome as her cousin Dora's doll ; but 
the dress was made so neatly, that every- 
body liked it. It served to amuse Jane and 
her little companions for months afterward. 

Do you think Dora Manning had so much 
pleasure with her beautiful new doll 7 No 
indeed ; she did not enjoy it half so much. 
It was entirely dressed when her mother 
bought it ; and after she had looked at it a 
few times, she cared very little about it. It 
was none ofit the work of her own little mind 
and fingers; and that was the reason she 
soon grew tired of it. 

Two days after it was bought, one of her 
friends showed her a remarkably large doll, 
that could open and shut its eyes, when a 
string was pulled, to make them open and 
shut. This made Dora unhappy. She did 
not like her own beautiful doll, because she 
had seen another doll, that had moving 



150 DISCONTENTED DORA. 

eyes. ^^I must have a doll that can open 
and shut her eyes/' said she. ^'I get cross 
with my doll ; for when I sing lullaby, lul- 
laby, there she lies in her cradle, with her 
great bright eyes staring wide open all the 
time. I must have a doll that can go tosleep." 

Her mother bought a great doll Avith 
moving eyes ; and, for a week or two, Dora 
was satisfied. But at the end of that time, 
she said she was tired of her doll, because 
she would not open and shut her eyes her- 
self ^' 1 have to pull a string to make her 
shut her eyes," said Dora; ^^ and I don't 
call that going to sleep at all. 1 am tired 
of the stupid thing. Mother, will you buy 
me a musical box, like that we saw at Mrs. 
Gray's ? You know a little bird came 
jumping out of that, and opened and shut 
his eyes, and sung, just as if he were alive. 
There was no need to pull a string, to make 
him open and shut his eyes. Mother, I 
want such a bird as that." 

^^ That musical box cost several hundred 
dollars, my dear," answered her mother. 
^•I cannot afford to indulge you in such an 
expensive present. Besides, the bird's eyes 
were opened and shut by little springs in- 
side of the box. He could not open his eyes 
himself, any better than your doll can." 



DISCONTENTED DORA. 151 

^^ Well, it seems as if he did it himself; 
and that is what I want," said the little 
teaser. ^^I never want to see my stupia 
doll again, with a string to pull her eyes 
open.'' 

'^You are never contented with your 
playthings, my dear Dora,'' said her mo- 
ther; ^^I wish I could see you as happy as 
your cousin Jane." 

^' Jane does not have half as many things 
as I do, and they are never half as pretty," 
said Dora; '^ but she always seems to like 
them. Mother, may I go to spend this after- 
noon with Jane?" 

Her mother said she might ; and Dora 
went to tell her cousin how tired she was of 
her new doll, that would not open and shut 
her eyes without having a string pulled. 

She found Jane very busy, pasting pic- 
tures upon a small white box, which her 
mother had given her. ''Oh, that is a 
sweet pretty box," exclaimed Dora; ''I will 
ask mother to buy me one just like it." 

''Why not make one for yourself?" asked 
Jane. 

"Oh, mother can afford to buy me one; 
and I do not want the trouble of making it,'' 
said Dora. 

" But you will like it as well again, if 



152 DISCONTENTED DORA. 

you make it," said Jane. ^'You cannot 
tell how pleasant it is to make your own 
things. 1 hke the things 1 make, as well 
again as I hke the things that are bought 
for me." 

^^You always like your things," said 
Dora, with a very sad voice. ''I wonder 
what is the reason I cannot take as much 
comfort in mine." 

^'I will tell you, my dear," said her aunt 
Loring. " You are not happy because you 
are not busy. You buy every thing already 
made, and then you have nothing to do but 
to look at it. This soon gets tiresome ; and 
it gives you no chance to improve yourself. 
Put some of your own taste, and your own 
industry into your things, and depend upon 
it you will like them a great deal better. If 
I were you, I would ask my mother not to 
buy me any more playthings. I Avill teach 
you to make many little things for yourself 
and others ; and when you are busy, you will 
be happy." 

Dora said she would; and two years after- 
ward, she told her mother that now she Ava's 
learning to help herself, and help other peo- 
ple, she had found out how to be happy. 
After tiiat, she never wanted a thing merely 
because she saw somebody else have it 



LITTLE EMMA. 




J 



iTTLE Kmma lived in 
New- York. She had 
an uncle in the country, 
who was a farmer. Em- 
ma loved nothing better 
than a run in the fields, 
where in two minutes she 
could fill her apron full of buttercups and 
clover blossoms. 

In the early spring time, she watched to see 
Avhen the grass on the Battery began to look 
green ; and the very first Dandehon she saw, 
she ran to her mother, and said, "The sun- 
shine has come now, mother. When shall 
we go into the country to see uncle?" 

In August, she had her wish. As they 
rode along, she saw the trees loaded with 
fruit, and the gardens full of flowers. She 
was so imi)atient to run in the fields, that 
she could hardly be contented to sit still in 



154 LITTLE EMMA. 

the chaise. At last, they arrived at her 
uncle's farm; and every body was glad to 
see little Emma and her mother. 

The little city girl could hardly stop to 
take her bonnet off, she was in such a hurry 
to run to the barn, with her cousins, to see 
the cows and the calves, and the sheep, 
and the hens, and the chickens. The 
white hen had a fine brood of chickens ; and 
Emma clapped her hands when she saw them 
running about to pick up seeds in the barn- 
yard. Two of the chickens were hatched 
from one egg. They had a wing on each 
side^ and were fastened together by one wing 
between them. Her cousin George called 
them his Siamese twins ; and said he meant 
to send them to the Museum. But the chick- 
ens were not so kind to each other, as the 
Siamese twins were. One chicken wanted 
to go one way, and the other chicken wan- 
ted to go another way. The big one pulled 
the little one very hcird ; and that made the 
little one cry,'^peep, peep." 

Emma pitied these poor little chickens. 

^^If I was the big chicken,'' said she, ^'I 
would be more kind to my little brother, and 
not pull him about so. But I suppose he 
don't know he hurts the little one." 

When the sun was setting she had some 



LITTLE EMMA. 155 

good new milk to drink ; and tnen the chil- 
dren went into the fields to gather flowers. 

While they were in the fields, Emma saw 
a little chipping squirrel run along the top 
of the wall. She cried out joyfully, and ran 
after him. She thought she could catch 
him, and stroke his fur, and teach him to 
live with her little kitten in New- York, and 
eat milk from a saucer. But the squirrel hid 
himself in his hole, and Emma could not 
find him. Her mother told her she was very 
glad she could not catch ihe squirrel ; for if 
she had taken hold of him, it would have 
frightened him very much, and made his 
little heart beat very fast. She told her the 
squirrel would be very unhappy in a city ; 
and unless he were shut up in a cage, he 
would run away. When Emma knew this, 
she did not want the pretty squirrel any 
more. She loved dearly to hear about his 
snag house under the ground, and the nuts 
he stored away in his little closet. 

In the evening, Emma saw a great many 
fire-flies in the meadows. She said to her 
uncle, '^ See how the ground is covered with 
pretty little stars ! Did the sky sprinkle 
them down?" 

Her uncle told her they were not stars, 
but little insects that gave bght from their 

ee 



156 LITTLE EMMA. 

wings. Then the httle girl asked, ^^ What 
is their name, uncle?" He told her people 
in the country called them lightning-bugs. 

Emma had never seen any fire- flies before, 
and she talked a great deal about them. 
But wheu she tried to tell her mother all 
about it, she forgot the name, and said, 
^'Oh mother, I have seen a great many 
beautiful thunder-bugs !" This made them 
all laugh ; and George called fire-flies thun- 
der-bug,s for a long time after. 

The next day, Emma went into the mea- 
dow with her cousin George, to gather cran- 
berries. ^' Where are all the fire-flies now?'' 
said she. '^I don't know," said George. 
''I suppose they have put their lamps out." 
Emma had never seen cranberries growing 
before. She called them little red apples, 
and wanted to carry some home for her 
doll. 

When they went back to the house, the 
children heard a great noise behind the 
barn, and they ran to see what it was. A 
cross dog was trying to bite a poor little 
calf. But there was a great ox feeding in 
the same pasture, and he ran to the calf and 
stood by him ; and whichever way the dog 
turned, the ox turned too, and pointed his 
horns at him. So the naughty dog was 



LITTLE EMMA. 157 

driven off, and the calf was not hurt much. 
Emma called him a good ox, and wanted to 
give him some of the cranberries from her 
little basket. But George told her the ox 
would not eat cranberries. 

When Emma found her cousins were go- 
ing to school, she wanted to go too. She 
had never been to school; but her mother 
had taught her to read and spell a little. 
She went with her cousins, and sat very 
still while the scholars said their lessons* 
When the school mistress asked her to read, 
she read as well as she could, and did not 
make any trouble at all. 

When she came home, her mother asked 
her what she did at school. Emma said, 
^'1 sat as still as a mouse; and I read 
^ Chain up a child, and away she will go!'" 
This made her uncle and all her cousins 
laugh very much ; for Emma did not say 
the verse right. She meant to say she had 
read, ''Train up a child in the way he 
should go.'' 

In the afternoon, her uncle went into the 
orchard to gather apples to send into New- 
York. Emma stood under the tree, holding 
her apron for some, while George tried to 
catch them in his hands, as they fell. A 
pretty little lady-bug lighted on her apron, 



158 LITTLE EMMA. 

and that pleased Emma very much. It had 
red wings, with Uttle black spots. '^ Oh, look 
here, George!'' said Emma, ^^here is a 
pretty little fly with a calico gown on." 

Presently, she saw a great many ants, 
crawling out of a hole in the ground near 
her feet. Some of them were eating into 
the apples that had fallen. '^What are 
these black things?'' said she; ^' Will they 
sting me?" George told her they would 
not sting her, and that they were called 
ants. ^' Aunts!" said she: ''Who are they 
aunts tof Your mother is my aunt ; but who 
are these black things aunts to ? Are they 
aunts to the lady-bugs?" George told her 
that ant, an insect, was a different word 
from aunt, a relation. But Emma did not 
understand very well about it. When she 
grows bigger, she will understand better. 

When they came home through the fields, 
after sunset, she heard a noise all the time. 
''What is that?" said she, George told her 
it was the crickets singing. Poor little Em- 
ma was puzzled again. "Crickets!" said 
she: "Why, I sit on a cricket." Her un- 
cle smiled. "Little Emma finds many things 
in the country that she does not understand," 
aid he. Then he told her that a cricket 



LITTLE EMMA. 159 

was a little thing with wings, that made a 
noise at nightfall. 

When they came to the house, Emma ran 
and emptied her apron full of apples into 
mother's lap. ^' What has my little girl 
been doing all the afternoon?" said her 
mother. ^' I have been helping uncle pick 
apples," said she ; ^' and I have seen a sweet 
pretty fly with a calico gown, that had a 
great many black aunts. When we came 
home, I heard some little birds singing their 
prayers. The birds have a queer name, 
mother. They call them crickels; and I 
sit on a cricket." 

Then the}^ all had a laugh at Emma. Her 
mother kissed her, and said, ^'My little 
girl does not know much about country 
things ; and she makes a great many mis- 
takes. A cricket is not a bird, my dear. 
It is an insect. If you were to see one, you 
would call it a bug." 

When it was time to go home, Emma 
cried. But her mother told her how much 
father wanted to kiss his good little girl ; 
and how he would love to hear about the 
things she had seen. Emma loved her 
father, and she was willing to go home. 

She told him all about the chickens, and 
the ox, and the lady-bug, and the squirrel 



160 



LITTLE EMMA. 



and the crickets. ^^I am glad I did not 
catch the pretty Uttle squirrel,'' said she; 
^^he would not love to live in New- York 
I suppose he was made on purpose to live 
in the country, I wish I was a squirrel.'' 





THE YOUNG TRAVELLER, 



iTTLE Fanny lived in the 
country. She had one bro- 
ther and two sisters. Tiiey 
had never been in a city. 
When Fanny was four or 
five years old, her father 
and mother promised to 
take her to New-York. There never w^as 
a httle girl so glad as she was. From morn- 
ing till night, she talked about her journey. 
When she first awoke in the morning, she 
would say to her sister, ''Ah, Mary, I am 
going to New-York." And when she laid 
her head on the pillow, the last question al- 
ways was, " Mother, when do you think we 
shall go to New-YorkT' 

The important day came at last. The 
baskets and boxes, and litile Fanny, were 
all safely stowed in the steam-boat. Fanny 
had never been in a steam-boat before. She 



162 THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. 

asked what made the trees and fields run 
so ; and when she looked at an old cow on 
the shore, she said, ^' What makes her go 
away so fast? She did not move her feet." 

Her mother told her the boat was moving 
away from the cow. Then little Fanny 
looked at the water, and saw that the boat 
was moving through it. But she thought 
there was soap in the water, because the 
bright foam looked so white. 

When they came to New- York, she was 
afraid in the street, because there were so 
many horses, and so many people. She m.et 
a woman carrying a very small poodle dog 
in her arms. His hair was white and soft 
as silk, and fell all over his face in pretty 
curls. Fanny stopped to look back at the 
poodle, and a boy with a basket of matches 
ran against her, and knocked her bonnet all 
in a bunch. 

^'Mother, is this another steam-boat?'' 
asked Fanny. ''No, this is a city,'' said 
her mother : '' Don't you see the houses?'' 
"Yes 1 see the houses," said Fanny; "but I 
thought may be it was another kind of 
steam-boat ; the folks run over me so." 

Fanny had great pleasure in looking at 
the toy-shops. She saw many things that 
she never saw before, and she wanted to 



THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. 163 

buy them all. But after a few days, she 
began to be very homesick. She wanted to 
get back and see the children, and her little 
red and white calf, and her Bantam chickens.* 
She wanted to be where she could run out 
of doors, without getting lost. She was glad 
enough when the day came to go home. 

Her brother and sisters were waiting for 
her with great impatience. When the wagon 
came from the steam-boat they saw it a 
great way off, and began to wave their 
handkerchiefs for joy. They all crowded 
round Fanny, and began to kiss her. ^' Oh, 
I have had such a good time," said Fanny; 
^' and I have brought some things for you.'^ 
She was so impatient, that she broke the 
string of her bonnet, trying to get it off. 
Before her mother could unpin her shawl, 
she seated herself on the floor, and began to 
open the big basket. '^ Susan, here is a doll 
for you," said she; ^^and here is a little pail 
for Mary, and here is a top for Willie. It 
will spin, spin, spin, — oh, my heart, how it 
will spin !" 

'^ Spin what ? Spin yarn for stockings?" 
asked little Mary. 

^^ No, no," said Willie, laughing: '4t 
will not spin yarn, it will spin round." 

*^ And what is round?" asked little Mary. 
11 



164 THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. 

^^ Oh you don't know anything. You 
never went to New- York/' said Fanny : 
^* Look at me. That is round." As she 
spoke, she whirled round, till her gown 
stood out, as stiff as a churn. 

^'That is going; that is not spinning," 
said Mary. 

^' Well, they call it spinning; for they 
said so in New- York," answered Fanny. 

^' They say so here, as well as in New- 
York," said Willie : ^' I suppose they call it 
so, because the top makes a noise like a 
spinning wheel." 

Fanny thought her brother did know 
something, though he had never been in 
New- York. She said no more about his top. 

^^Come, tell us what you have seen," said 
Susan. 

^•Oh^ T have seen such a many things," 
said Fanny; I cannot remember to tell half of 
them. 1 saw a little boy riding in the pret- 
tiest little carriage you ever saw. He had 
two ponies, no larger than uncle James's big 
dog. They looked like baby horses. 1 saw 
a great white image of a woman, that kept 
pouring water, from a pitcher in her hand 
all the time. They called it a fountain. 
And I saw a little marble boy, that kept 
throwing up water over his head, and laughed 



THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. 165 

when he saw it fall back agam, wetting him 
ail over. He was not alive. He was a 
marble image. But he looked as if he were 
laughing. And I saw so many, many dolls !'' 

^'Should you like to live in New- York'?'' 
asked WilHe. 

^' No, I should not like to live there. 1 
couldn't run about; and the folks push me. 
Come, let us go to the barn, and see how 
bossy calf does." 

They all ran out to the barn, and found 
the calf eating his supper. Fanny patted 
him on the head, but he did not take much 
notice of her. '-The foolish little thing," 
said Fanny: ^'he does not know I have 
been to New- York. But here comes pussy 
cat, and she is glad to see me." 

Pussy rubbed her fur against Fanny's 
gown, and purred. Then they ran into the 
barn to hunt for eggs; and the children all 
Avent back to the house, with an egg in 
each hand. Their mother told tlie little 
ones it was time to eat their sup]:|™i|id go 
to bed. For a long time after they^^nt up 
stairs, Fanny's tongue was running, as fast 
as her brother's top could spin. Poor little 
Mary could not keep awake to hear all her 
stories; and the chatter-box, finding that 
her sister was asleep, went to sleep herself. 



166 



THE YOUNG TRAVELLER. 



Every day, she tells of some new wonderj 
that she saAV or heard while she was in the 
city. If the children langh at her stories, 
she walks very tall, and says, ^' You never 
saw such things; for you never went to 
New- York." 



A. 





GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 



NE day, when Gertrude May 
was walking with her mo- 
ther, they met a bo^who 
had a bird to sell, ilwas 
a little wild yellow bird ; 
such as fly about in our 
woods and fields. Ger- 
trude's mother bought the bird, and her 
httle girl was much pleased. 

When they brought him home, she talked 




% 

168 GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 

to him by the hour together. He was so 
tame, that he would hop out of the cage, 
and sit on the rose-bushes and geraniums 
that stood in the window. He would pick 
up the crumbs from the breakfast table, and 
peck at the lump of sugar that Gertrude 
held in her hand. 

Birds like a clean cage as well as little 
girls like a clean gown. Gertrude learned 
to brus?i out the cage very neatly, with a 
little broom, that she called her bird-broom. 
Every morning, she gave him fresh seed, 
and filled his glass cup with fresh water. 
Sometimes she would place a large basin of 
water on the table near him. He liked to 
dive into it, and bob his head in and out, 
^' and dash about, and splash about, and 
shake his dripping wings." This was 
good sport for Gertrude. She loved dearly 
to see yellow-breast take a bath. 

Her mother used to tell her that she must 
be vj^y sure not to forget the little bird for 
a single day. '' It is very cruel to let little 
birds want seeds or water." said she: '^4t 
is bad enough to keep them shut up in a 
cage." 

^' Is not yellow-breast happy in his cage T^ 
asked Gertrude. 

" Not as happy as he would be flying in 



GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 169 

the woods," said her mother. ^' He feels 
just as you would if you were always shut 
up in a small room, and never allowed to 
go out." 

^^ Then we ought to let him fly," said 
kind-hearted little Gertrude. 

^^ The ground is covered with snow, now," 
replied her mother. ^^His toes would be 
cold on the ice, and he could not find any 
berries or seeds on the frosty bushes. I 
bought him of the boy, for fear he would 
not take good care of poor little yellow- 
breast through the cold winter. When the 
warm spring comes, we will let him go out 
among the trees and flowers, Avhere he can 
find other little birds to play with." 

'* How long will it be before spring?" 
asked Gertrude. 

Her mother said it would be about eight 
weeks. The little girl sighed. She wanted 
little yellow-breast to be happy, but she did 
not like to think about his going away. 

When the snow was all gone, and green 
leaves were on the bashes, Gertrude said, 
one morning, '^ Mother dear, if you think 
yellow-breast will be happier out in the 
warm air, I am willing to let him go." 

Her mother kissed her, and called her a 
kind little girl. They took the cage from 



170 GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 

the window, and went out into the garden 
together. The good mother hung the cage 
on the bough of a cherry tree, and opened 
the door. Yellow-breast flew out, and 
perched on the green bough, and warbled a 
joyous song. He did not go out of the gar- 
den, and Gertrude staid and watched him a 
loug time. Some other little birds came to 
see him, and they seemed to be talking to- 
gether in the cherry tree. ^4 am glad he is 
so happy," said good little Gertrude. 

The next morning, she got up early, and 
went into the garden. She called yellow- 
breast, but he did not come. When she 
went into the parlour, and looked at his 
empty cage, she felt so sad, that she sat 
down and cried. 

Her mother came in and asked what was 
the matter. ^^I do not want any break- 
fast,'' said Gertrude; ^'for dear little yellow- 
breast will not come any more to eat my 
crumbs." 

^' My little Gertrude must not be selfish," 
said her mother. '' It is selfish to think how 
sad you will feel at breakfast time, instead 
of thinking how happy little yellow-breast 
will be, playing with other little birds in the 
open air. It is a long time since he has had 



GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 171 

any little birds to play with, and he will en- 
joy it veiy much.'' 

Good little Gertrude dried her eyes, and 
said, '^ I will try not to be selfish, dear 
mother. I am glad yellow-breast is happy 
with his little playmates." 

She went and studied her lesson, like a 
good girl. 

The next morning, before she was up, 
she heard some little birds singing sweetly 
in the garden. ''One of them sounds just like 
yellow-breast," said she. ''I guess he has 
brought a great many little birds, to thank us 
for taking care of him through the cold 
winter." 

Gertrude had two uncles that were sea- 
captains. When they knew how fond she 
had been of little yellow-breast, they brought 
home birds in their ships, from countries far 
off, beyond the big sea. Her mother told 
her it would not do to open the cage and let 
these fly away ; for these birds were used 
to living in very hot countries, and the 
weather in our country would kill them. 
So little Gertrude said she would make them 
as happy as she could in a cage. 

After little yellow breast was gone, her 
first favourite was a beautiful green parrot, 
with fiery red feathers at the tip of her 

ff 



172 GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 

wings. She was a very genteel parrot. She 
would take an apple in her claw, and nibble 
it as prettily as any lady in the land. She 
was very neat in her habits, and would scold 
violently if her cage were not cleaned early 
in the morning. She came from the island 
of Hayti. and had lived a long time with a 
French family; of course, she talked French. 
When any stranger came to the house, she 
flapped her wings, rolled her eyes about, 
perched up her head, and called out, ^^ Jolie 
Jannette! Void I Void! Jolie JaiinetteP'^ 
In English, this means, ^' Pretty Jannette! 
Look here ! Look here ! Pretty Jannette !" 
It made Gertrude laugh to hear her parrot 
talk French, and to see her so vain of her 
bright feathers. 

A few months after, the other uncle 
brought her a parrot from the island of 
Cuba. The people there speak Spanish ; 
so the parrot spoke Spanish, too. It was 
not so handsome, so neat, or so good-naturpd, 
as the French parrot. These two foolish 
birds quarrelled whenever they saw each 
other. When the French parrot strutted 
about, and called out, '-^ Jolie JannetteV the 
Spanish parrot would scream '^ Tonto ! 
T'onto F'' \n English, this means ^'Fool! 
Fool!" Then the French parrot would 



GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 173 

scream '-'- Mediant gar qon I pas propreV^ In 
Englicjh this means, ^' Naughty boy! Not 
clean V 

Neither of them knew what the other 
mean t ; and each though t the other was a great 
fool for using words that could not be under- 
stood. It was very funny to hear them. 
The moment one spoke in French, the other 
would scold in Spanish ; and the French 
parrot, without understanding a word the 
other said, would scold in French, as loud 
as she could scream. At last, they would both 
get so angry, that it seemed as if they Avould 
tear their cages in pieces. 

Jannette used to sit upon a perch in the 
cherry-tree, during the day time, fastened 
by a long silver chain, to prevent her flying 
away. The Spanish parrot, whose name 
was Antoine, was likewise fastened by a 
long slender chain, and his cage was placed 
in another tree, with the door open. One 
day, these quarrelsome birds were carelessly 
placed too near each other. Jannette was 
on her perch nibbling an apple, and Antoine 
sat on the top of his cage, whistling a tune. 
Jannette began the quarrel by calling cut, 
^^ Yllain Antoine ! pas propre! pas propreV 
This means ''Ugly Antoine ! Not clean ! not 
clean !" Antoine did not know what she 



174 GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS, 

said, but he thought it was something rude; 
so he screamed, ^' CaZfa, TontoV which 
means, ^^ Hold your tongue, you fool!'^ 
They kept on screaming louder and louder, 
.calling each other all the names they could 
think of. At last, they began to fight furi- 
ously with their beaks and claws. A large 
cat ran up the tree, seized Jannette by the 
throat, and killed her. Antoine was hurt 
very badly in the fight, and died a few days 
after. 

Gertrude cried heartily for her foolish 
birds. But the next time her uncle came 
home from sea, he brought her a very beau- 
tiful parroquet, famous for his music. Ger- 
trude soon learned to love this dear little 
bird, more than she had ever loved her 
parrots. It could whistle any time it ever 
heard twice ; and its voice was very soft 
and sweet. It was as pleasant as a music- 
box. Gertrude was never tired of hearing 
it sing. But she did not enjoy it long. , A 
boy brought some wild berries into the 
house, and nobody knew they were poison, 
till the poor little parroquet ate some of 
them and died. 

Gertrude cried very much. She thought 
she never would try to keep another bird. 
She asked her father to bury her little fa- 



GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 175 

vourite in the garden, and she planted a 
Forget-me-not where his 'body was laid. 

Some months after, her micle brought 
home a Java sparrow. This little bird was 
so lady-like and slender, and had such very 
delicate purple feathers, and picked the 
sugar from Gertrude's hand so prettily, that 
she soon learned to love it very much. She 
had a large cage, hung in a sunny corner, 
with a rich grape vine all round it. The 
water in her little glass cup was changed 
twice a day, and she had plenty of cake- 
crumbs and dainty seed. She was as happy 
as a bird could be, taken away from her lit- 
tle playmates, and from the wide free air, 
to be shut up in a cage. 

But poor Gertrude did not have good 
luck with her birds. One day she came 
home from school, and found her darling 
little sparrow dead in the cage. She never 
knew what killed it. There was plenty of 
clean water and good fresh seed in the cups ; 
but there it lay on its back, quite stiff and 
cold. Gertrude stroked its glossy feathers, 
and kissed it, and cried as if her heart would 
break. Her father had the pretty little crea- 
ture stuffed, and put under a glass case. But, 
for many weeks, Gertrude could not look 
at it, without feeling the tears come in her 



176 



GERTRUDE AND HER BIRDS. 



eyes. She asked her mother to put the 
empty bird-cage away, where she could 
never see it again. 

She begged her uncles never to bring her 
another bird. '• I had rather the little crea- 
tures would stay in the warm countries 
where they are born," said she. ^'1 am 
afraid they are not happy in a cage. I am 
sure they like better to fly about in the open 
air, with their little playmates.'' 

After that, Gertrude had a little baby bro- 
ther, and she liked so well to play with him, 
that she did not cry any more for her parro- 
quet and sparrow. ^'I love darling little 
Frank better than a himdred birds," said 
she; ^^and I don't have to keep him shut 
up in a cage. That is a good thing." 




OUR PLAYTHINGS 





j|||l US AN has a waxen doll, 

With little bright blue eyes, 
And Mary has a pretty Poll, 
That chatters, laughs, and cries. 

Dear James has made a handsome ship, 

With famous mast and sails, 
And father bought for little Phip 
A wooden cow and pails. 

Louisa has a milk-white dove, 

And little china boys; 
But I have something that I love 

Better than birds or toys. 



178 OUR PLAYTHINGS. 

It never speaks a single word, 
Yet tells me many things, 

About some darling little bird, 
That makes its nest and sings; 

About good little children too 
And little babies dear, 

It tells me many stories new. 
And some are very queer. 

Of all my things I like it best. 

Peep in and take a look ! 
'Tis prettier than all the rest, 

My little story book. 




FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN. 



JBavt £SS. 



MAKING SOMETHING 




^UmES MERCHANT and John 
Carpenter were boys of the same 
jv, age. They were very near neigh- 
bors; and as soon as they could run 
alone, they were in the habit of 
talking to each other through peeping- 
holes in the fence, that separated their 
fathers' gardens. But though these chil- 
dren grew up side by side, played togeth- 
er, attended the same school, and read the 
same books, their characters were very 
unlike. Early education was one great 
reason of this dissimilarity. One of the 
first things James could remember, was 
hearing his mother remark that her little 
Jimmy's cap cost more than any other cap 
in the village. When he wore it, he would 
strut along, and call out to his playmates, 
^* See my cap ! It cost a dollar and a 
half You haven't got such a cap, none 



10 MAKING SOMETHING. 

of ye !" His mother would laugh, and 
say, ^' Dear little soul ! How proud he is 
of his pretty cap." 

John's mother was a very different 
Avoman. She made a cap for him, and 
when she had done it, she quietly observed 
to a neighbor, '^ It is quite a comfortable 
little thing ; is it not ? 1 made it from a 
piece of ray husband's coat. I was obliged 
to contrive a little ; but I cut mv cap ac- 
cording to my cloth.'' 

When the boys were between six and 
seven years old, James's father bought 
him a small wooden horse, gaily painted, 
and fastened on a platform with wheels. 
James scarcely rolled it once across the 
floor, before he ran into the next house, 
exclaiming, '^ See my horse ! It cost al- 
most a dollar. Your father didn't buy 
you such a one." John looked at it with 
longing eyes ; but James would not allow 
him to take hold of the string. ^' It is my 
horse," said he : ^' You may look at it ; 
but you mustn't touch it." Mrs. Carpen- 
ter observed how busily her son examined 
every part, and she thought he would soon 
ask her for money to buy one. But he 
did not. As he passed through the wood- 
house, on his way home from school, that 



MAKING SOMETHING. 11 

afternoon, he spied a queer-looking summer- 
squash, with a hard shell. He seized it, 
and ran into the house, exclaiming eager- 
ly, ''Mother! Mother! may I have this 7" 
''Yes, my son," she rephed; "but what 
on earth do you want to do with it?" He 
placed it on the table, with a look of great 
satisfaction, and said, " See there, mother ! 
If it only had legs, it would look very 
much like a horse." He soon disappeared 
with his treasure, and was seen no more 
till he was called to supper. The next 
morning, he exhibited the squash with four 
sticks for feet, two bits of brown cloth for 
ears, a tail made from the horse's mane, 
and a saddle very neatly cut from an old 
boot. It bore considerable resemblance to 
a horse, though it was certainly rather stiff 
in the joints. How to put him in motion 
was the question. John meditated a great 
deal upon that point. Perhaps it was the 
reason he could not make his sum prove, 
the next day at school. On his way home, 
he went into a turner's shop, and peeping 
among the shavings, he found four round 
pieces of wood. The turner said he might 
have them ; and John, blushing and hesi- 
tating, inquired whether it would be a greai 
deal of trouble for him to make a hole in 



12 MAKING SOMETHING. 

the middle of each piece. The man asked 
what he wanted them for, and John told 
the story of the horse. ^' If you have made 
a horse of a squash," replied the turner, 
laughing, ^'I should like to see it. If you 
have done it well, I will make the platform 
and wheels." John went home on the 
wings of the wind, and soon reappeared at 
the shop with his squash. The men had 
a great laugh at his workmanship. '' I 
declare, though, he is an ingenious little 
fellow," said the turner ; and he good- 
naturedly bored the wheels, and fastened 
the legs upon a platform. A proud boy 
was John, when he went home, trundling 
his horse behind him. When he brought 
his steed to the door, he called out, 
^' Whoo !" with a loud voice, and sum- 
moned all the family to look. His mother 
smiled, and said, '' It is a very good horse, 
my son ; but it seems to me the ears are 
rather too small." ^^ Why you see, moth- 
er," he replied earnestly, "' I had to do as 
you did about my cap. I had to cut the 
ears according to my cloth." His mother 
patted his head affectionately, and said, 
'' You certainly have a great deal of con- 
trivance, my son." His father looked 
pleased, and said, ^^ He has certainly done 



MAKING SOMETHING. 13 

it well, for such a little fellow. The saddle 
is quite a pattern. I shouldn't wonder if 
he made something, one of these days." 

When John went to bed that night, he 
asked, ^' What did father mean by saying 
he shouldn't wonder if I made something 
one of these days ?" '^ He meant that he 
hoped you would be a capable man, quick 
at contriving things," replied his mother. 
*' You have made a horse, you know ; and 
that is making something." 

James was visiting an aunt in the next 
town, on the important day when the horse 
came home from the turner's shop. As 
soon as he returned, John was all eager- 
ness to show it to him. But James looked 
upon it very coldly. '^ My horse cost al- 
most a dollar," said he; *'and yours didn't 
cost any thing. It isn't half so pretty as 
mine." •' I had real fun in making it, 
though," replied John ; and away he ran, 
with his horse rolling after him. A few 
weeks after, the squash began to be a little 
wrinkled. '' Look at your old horse now," 
said James : '' He is all drying up." 
*^ And yours has got his head broken off, 
and lost two wheels," replied John. ^' I 
don't care for that," said his comrade. 
'' Mother will buy me another." " More 



14 MAKING SOMETHING. 

squashes will grow next year," answered 
John ; '^ and by that time, I shall be old 
enough to make the wheels myself. It is 
real fun to make things." He gave abun- 
dant evidence that he liked such fun ; for 
he was all the time busy. Before he was 
ten years old, the playground behind the 
barn was ornamented with all sorts of 
martin-boxes and wind-mills, made by his 
own busy fingers, with very slight assist- 
ance from his father. 

One day, James came to him in high 
glee, to show a treasure he had obtained. 
'' See here !" he exclaimed. " Here are 
four jack-knives and two pen-knives ; real 
good ones. A man sold them all to me 
for a dollar." '' What are you going to 
do Avith 50 many T^ inquired John. '' I 
am going to sell them," he replied. '' At 
a quarter of a dollar apiece, they will be 
as cheap as saw-dust ; and T shall double 
my money." '' Perhaps the man stole 
them ; else how could he sell them so 
cheap ?" said John. '^ 1 don't know," 
answered the young trader : " All I know 
is that I shall make money." " Make 
money," repeatedJohn, slowly and thought- 
fully. '^ To sell a thing for more than 
you gave for it, does not Tuake any thing. 



MAKING SOMETHING. 15 

Why do people call it making money ?" 
James burst into a loud laugh. ^^ In a 
few weeks, I will show you what I make," 
said he. ^^ Oh I imderstand that very 
well," replied John. '^ But I mean there 
is not anything really made. There are 
just as many things in the world as there 
were before. I should like to see how 
money itself is made. The cunning little 
five-cent pieces, how pretty they must look 
dropping out of the mint, all bright and 
new !" ^' I should like to hold my hat 
under and catch some," said James. '' And 
1 should like to know how to make them," 
rejoined his companion. 

When James went, a few days after, to 
show his neighbor the money he had gain- 
ed by trading in knives, he found him, as 
usual, busy with his tools. ^' What are 
you doing now 7" he asked. '^I am go- 
ing to teach Towser to churn," said John. 
^' While I am churning, he stretches him- 
self out under the tree and goes to sleep. 
I think he may as w^ell do something for a 
living. People talk about working like a 
dog ; but it seems to me dogs do not work 
at all." James stood watching him, as 
the shavings rolled from under his swiftly 
moving plane. '^ I declare," said he, ^^ I 



16 MAKING SOMETHING. 

never saw such a fellow as you are. You 
are always making something. For my 
part, I like to make money, and I like to 
play." 

^* So do I,'' replied John. ^^ But this is 
play. It's real fun to make things.'' 

In a few days, James was summoned to 
see the dog churn, by treading continually 
on an inclined plane, the motion of which 
turned the crank of the churn. The boys 
laughed and hurraed ; but heavy old 
Towser was far enough from being merry. 
He looked extremely dignified and solemn, 
stepping, stepping all the time, without 
getting an inch a head. '' I know what I 
would do," said James. '^ I would take 
Towser to the Museum, in the city, and 
charge people sixpence for seeing him 
churn." '^ Towser don't like the city," 
replied John. ^' Other dogs fight with 
him. Besides, I should get dreadfully 
tired, standing about, waiting. I should 
want to be making something." '' You 
would be making money," answered 
James. '^ I tell you that isn't making 
anything," replied his comrade. ^'I want 
to make a pail-tree for mother, and a wagon 
for Ann Eames. Her baby brother is very 
heavy, and her arms get tired lugging him 



MAKING SOMETHING. 17 

about." ^^ What on earth is a pail-tree V 
inquired James. *' I mean a post with 
branches hke a tree, for mother to hang 
her milk-pails on," answered the young 
mechanic. James went off whistling, but 
presently turned back and called out, ^* I 
say, John, Don't you mean to make a 
spinning-wheel for the cat, next ]" 

Ann Eames and Susan Brown, two 
school-mates of the boys, took great pleas- 
ure in coming to see Towser churn, in the 
shade of a fine old elm tree. They often 
brought a piece of meat for him, knowing 
that his young master always rewarded 
him with a good meal when he had finish- 
ed his task. But though Towser was fed 
bountifully for his trouble, and though he 
had by his new acquirements become a 
dog of distinction in the neighborhood, he 
evidently did not like the labor at all. As 
soon as the churn was brought out under 
the elm, his ears drooped, and he sneaked 
along, looking out sideways from the cor- 
ners of his eyes, as if he were contempla- 
ting some means of escape. One day, 
when the butter did not come as soon as 
usual, he set up a most piteous howl, and 
continued howling all the time, till they 
2 HI 



18 MAKING SOMETHING. 

untied the string and released him. The 
next time the cream was brought up from 
the cellar, Towser was stretched out by 
ihe door, and the kitten was rolling over 
among his feet, now and then giving him 
a cuff on the ear, or a pat on the nose, 
which was her mode of saying, '' Here I 
am, Towser !" He bore all her antics 
with drowsy good-nature ; but the moment 
he saw the churn uncovered, he sprang on 
his paws with such haste, that he upset 
poor puss ; and off he went, with long 
steps, over ditch and wall, into the woods, 
and was seen no more that day. The fam- 
ily usually churned on Wednesday ; and 
the next time the day came round, John's 
father tied the dog to the elm tree very 
early in the morning. He howled all the 
time he was churning, and seemed to be 
very much out of humour during the rest 
of the day. The next week, he skulked 
off into the woods on Tuesday evening, 
and did not make his appearance again 
till the following night. For three weeks, 
he regularly disappeared every Tuesday 
evening. It was evident that the wise old 
dog knew they churned on Wednesday. 
Mr. Carpenter proposed to tie him, as early 
as Tuesday noon ; but John said, ^' I had 



MAKING SOMETHING. 19 

rather you would not, if you please, father. 
The more I think of it, the more it seems 
to me that it would be right to do the 
churning myself It must make poor 
Towser very unhappy, or else he would 
not run away as he does. I think myself 
it must be tedious work for a poor beast to 
keep walking, walking, and never getting 
an inch ahead. Then you know he never 
tastes the good sweet butter he makes. I 
don't mind it that my arms are sometimes 
tired when I churn ; for I have the satis- 
faction of knowing that I am making but- 
ter, and helping my mother. But poor 
Towser gets tired without any satisfaction 
at all ; for he don't know what he does it 
all for." 

'^ That's a good considerate boy," said 
his mother. She placed her hand upon 
his head, and smiled upon him, as she ad- 
ded, '' Always be kind and thoughtful 
about the animals, my son. Never strike 
them, and always remember that they need 
their little enjoyments, and cannot speak 
for themselves." The good father, too 
placed a friendly hand on his shoulder, 
and told him that he agreed with him per- 
fectly. After that, the dog's unwillingness 
to be a machine was respected by the whole 



20 MAKING SOMETHING. 

family ; but it was several weeks before 
he ventured to stay at home on Wednes- 
day. The first time he did so, he sneaked 
round John, and looked up timidly in his 
face, as if he was thinking to himself, '' I 
am afraid you think I am an ungrateful 
dog, and that it is mean of me not to be 
willing to help you." One day, when 
James found his comrade churning, he in- 
quired where was the dog ; and John re- 
peated his reasons for being unwilling to 
keep the poor beast at a task he so much 
disliked. ^' You are a queer fellow,'' re- 
plied James, bursting into a laugh. ^' How 
hard you worked to make that churn-trot- 
ter, and now you throw it aside, because 
the dog does not fancy it.'' 

*'I had the pleasure of contriving it, and 
making it," answered his friend ; '' and 
that was worth a good deal." 

His mother, who was washing her 
milk-pails, near by, added, ^^And you 
learned a lesson in curing selfishness ; for 
you liked better to do the churning your- 
self, than to make the poor dog unhappy. 
If Tovvser could reason about it, as well as 
you can, I dare say he would wish to save 
you work, and would come and offer to do 
it." '^ I am not so sure about that. 



MAKING SOMETHING. 21 

mother," replied John. '^ People talk 
about working like a dog, but none of the 
dogs of my acquaintance seem to have the 
least taste for working.'' ^' I said he 
would be willing to work to help a friend, 
if he could reason about it," rejoined she ; 
^' for Towser is certainly very affectionate, 
and loves you very much." 

Not long after, John went to visit his 
mother's brother, who was a sea-captain. 
He had a very delightful visit ; for his 
uncle told him many stories of foreign 
lands, and showed him a variety of carved 
oars from the Sandwich Islands, and beau- 
tiful ivory balls from China, and a com- 
plete little ship, made by a Yankee sailor. 

AVhen he returned home, he was more 
busy than ever. He was ambitious to 
surprise his uncle with a ship of his own 
making, j&nished even more neatly than 
the one he had seen. During his visit to 
the city, he had taken very particular no- 
tice of the inward and outward construc- 
tion of ships, and had inquired the reason 
of every peculiarity in the different styles 
of building. The industry and intelligence 
with which he applied this newly-acquired 
knowledge was remarkable. When James 
met him dragging home a log of wood, al- 



22 MAKING SOMETHING. 

most too heavy for him to tug, he cried 
out, ^' What now ?" ^^ Going to make 
something,^' replied John, smihng. '' No 
doubt of that,'' said James. '^ You are al- 
ways making something. But what gim- 
crack are you going'to make, now?" '' A 
ship for my uncle," replied John. ^^ This 
log is for the hull." James rattled the 
marbles in his pockets, and walked off, 
whistling Yankee Doodle. While the ship 
was in progress, he often came and stood 
by, playing with Towser, and inquiring 
the city prices of knives, fish-hooks, &c. 

One day, instead of finding John at his 
carpenter's bench, he met him going into 
the woods, with a basket full of twigs 
packed in wet mosses. 

•' What have you there ?" inquired 
James. ^' Scions for grafting," answered 
John. ^^ When I was with my uncle, I 
met an old Norwegian sea-captain, who 
told me a great many stories about Nor- 
way. He said the first thing the boys 
wanted to possess was a pruning-knife ; 
and they all learned to graft when they 
were quite small. If they tasted any un- 
commonly good apples or pears, they found 
out on what tree they grew, and when 
grafting time came round, they begged 



MAKING SOMLTHING. 23 

some scions, and went off into the Avoods 
to graft the trees. He said, it was mighty- 
pleasant, when traveUing through the for- 
est, to come unexpectedly upon these rich 
boughs of pears and apples. I have been 
thinking it would be very pleasant in this 
country too. If these grafts do well, per- 
haps, a few years hence, workmen going 
through the woods, tired and thirsty, will 
find boughs of juicy apples hanging right 
over their path. They will not know that 
John Carpenter put them there. But no 
matter ; they will have the comfort of eat- 
ing them." 

'' And what will you make by your 
trouble ?'' asked his companion. 

^' Make !'' exclaimed John. '' Why, I 
told you I should make apples." 

^' But what good will that do yoii .^" 
inquired James. '' What good ? Why the 
good of doing it, to be sure," replied John. 

" You are a strange fellow," said James. 
'' I never heard any body talk as you do." 

And off he ran to catch another boy, 
who wanted to trade with him for some 
fish-hooks. 

He often thought John was foolish to 
spend so much time and labor upon his 
ship ; but when it was painted and com- 



24 MAKING SOMETHING. 

pletely rigged, he acknowledged it was 
well worth all the trouble. It was in fact 
very beautiful in its proportions, and fin- 
ished with extreme neatness. If it had 
been big enough to launch, it would have 
gone through the waters as swiftly and 
gracefully as a swallow floats on the air. 

'' Hurra V shouted James, '' That is a- 
bout the handsomest thing I ever saw. If 
I were you, I would exhibit it in the city. 
The boys would give a hat- full of coppers 
to see it." ^- 1 should rather not stand 
lounging about all day," replied John. '' I 
had rather be grafting trees, or finishing 
my bee-hives." ^-'O yes," said James, 
laughing ; '' of course, making money 
isn't making any thing." 

When the time arrived for the lads to 
choose employments for life, their fathers 
inquired what they would like to do. John 
seemed to have as much mechanical tal- 
ent for one thing as for another ; but the 
visit to his uncle, the sea-captain, and the 
great number of Voyages and Travels he 
had since read, determined his choice in 
favor of making ships. The highest am- 
bition of James was to tend a store in the 
city, and become a rich merchant. His 
mother was pleased with this preference. 



MAKING SOMETHING. 25 

^^ I never wanted a child of mine to be a 
mechanic,'' said she. ^' Some boys seem 
to be born with vulgar tastes ; but I al- 
ways thought my James had naturally a 
genteel turn." John heard the remark, 
but he was so busy making a bow and 
arrow for Ann Eames, that he did not pay 
much attention to it. If he had known 
that she meant to insinuate he had a vul- 
gar taste, it would not have troubled him. 
He would merely have thought to himself, 
^^ She is very much mistaken in supposing 
it is vulgar to make things." 

After the lads left their native village, 
to pursue their respective employments, 
they met but seldom. When James Mer- 
chant was twenty years old, he was one 
day going on board a ship about to be 
launched, when he encountered the com- 
panion of his childhood. They greeted 
each other cordially ; but James glanced 
at his friend's apron, and his paper work- 
ing-cap, with a feeling of superiority. He 
could not help saying, ^' I wonder such a 
smart handsome fellow as you are, John, 
can be contented to be a njechanic. It is 
considered vulgar, you know." 

'' I do not ask what it is considered, but 
what it is'^ replied John. " To live in 

lih 



26 MAKING SOMETHING. 

this world without adding any thing to its 
conveniences or ornaments, seems to me 
disrepectable. If mechanical employment 
is considered vulgar, the wisest thing I can 
do is to dignify it by my own character and 
pursuits." 

"But how can you dignify it by your own 
pursuits, when you are all the time wield- 
ing the axe or the saw ?'' inquired James. 

'' I do not spend all my time thus,^' 
rejoined the sensible young man. " I 
rest myself by studying mathematics, 
learning to play on the flute, and attend- 
ing lectures on Natural Philosophy. I 
save a small portion of my wages every 
month to purchase books. By and bye, if 
I can aff*ord the time and money, I will 
study French ; because I think it will en- 
large the bounds of my knowledge, and 
may prove useful to me in busmess. But 
I will always keep to my tools a large 
proportion of the time ; for that is the tal- 
ent nature gave me, and I think now, just 
as I did when we were boys, that it is real 
fun to make things.'^ 

The next Thanksgiving evening, the 
young men met again at a ball in their 
native village. James waited upon Susan 
Brown, and John went with Ann Eames. 



MAKING SOMETHING. 27 

Some people remarked that they wondered 
Ann did not set her cap for the young 
merchant ; but the simple good girl never 
thought of such a thing as setting her cap 
for any body. She and John had fed the 
same dog, and petted the same kitten, and 
attended the same reading school, and the 
same singing school, and the same dancing 
school. She had loved him ever since she 
could remember, and John had loved her. 
If the son of the French king had come to 
court her, she would have told him, in all 
simplicity, that she could not love him so 
well as she did John Carpenter. James 
had always seemed to like the company of 
Susan Brown very much, and it was con- 
sidered a settled thing that each of the 
young men would marry his favorite school 
mate. But when they met again, after an 
interval of five years, the following con- 
versation took place between them : ^^ I 
have a store of my own now," said James. 
'' And I am master workman," said John. 

" I am making money fast," said James. 

^^ And I am making ships," replied John. 

^' I am engaged to a rich heiress," contin- 
ued James. '- Her father has lent me a 
handsome capital to start in business. I 
shall make money by marrying." 



28 MAKING SOMETHING. 

'1 am engaged to AnnEames," said John. 
"You know when I was a boy you nevel 
could convince me that making money 
was making any thing. Sure I am it is 
not making love ; and I don't see how a 
home can be happy without love.'' 

It so happened that the friends did not 
see each other again for twelve years, and 
then they met far from their native land. 

Mr. Merchant was sent as commercial 
agent to Turkey. As he sailed along that 
bend of the Bosphorus called The Golden 
Horn, and gazed with delight on the beau- 
tiful amphitheatre of hills, adorned with 
blooming gardens, and pure white mina- 
rets, tipped with gilded crescents, the cap- 
tain pointed out a noble vessel lying on the 
stocks, and said, " That is an American 
vessel. It was built for the Turkish Sul- 
tan by a Yankee named John Carpenter ; 
and proud enough the Sultan is of her." 

When they entered Constantinople, a 
long procession was passing through the 
streets, to the sound of gongs and cymbals, 
tamborines and bells. The flowing Asi- 
atic robes, with bright rainbow colors, the 
gay turbans, belts flashing with jewels, 
and horses in glittering harness, made a 
splendid show. In the centre rode the 



MAKING SOMETHING . 29 

Sultan, distinguished by the superior ele- 
gance of his embroidered robes, and by 
the magnificent diamonds, which fastened 
the feather of his turban. Behind him 
were led two beautiful Arabian horses, 
richly caparisoned, intended as a present 
to the American mechanic. They were on 
their way to witness the launching of the 
new vessel, called Queen of the Bosphorus. 

Mr. Merchant turned to follow the 
crowd. He had scarcely come within sight 
of the ship, when he was recognised by 
the companion of his boyhood. A nod and 
a smile was all he could find time to give 
at the moment, for he was obliged to at- 
tend to the reception of the Sultan and his 
train on board the vessel. It was on all 
hands agreed to be the best constructed 
and most superb ship that ever rode the 
waves of The Golden Horn. 

When it was loosed from the fastenings, 
and slid majestically into the waters, all 
the ships in the harbor run up their flags, 
and fired salutes ; and from the receding 
shores of Constantinople was heard the 
uproar of many voices, mingled with gongs 
and cymbals. From the mast-head float- 
ed the American flag, in honor of the Yan- 
kee mechanic, and all the American sail- 



BO MAKING SOMETHING. 

ors in port waved their hats and hurraed 
as it passed. 

Mr. Merchant, who, amid the hurry and 
confusion, had been eagerly beckoned on 
board by his friend, took the earhest op- 
portunity to congratulate him. '^ This is 
a proud ^fioment for you, Mr. Carpenter,'' 
said he; 'but I cannot help smiling to think 
that he e too, I find you at your old busi- 
ness, naking something. I am glad to 
hear that you are likewise making money, 
which you used to despise so much." 

'' Oh no, I never despised wealth," re- 
plied his friend ; '' but I like to have it 
come to me as the natural consequence of 
making something, which adds to the stock 
of useful or beautiful things in this world." 

'' And that is the very mode in which it 
is coming to you," rejoined Mr. Merchant. 
'^ I am told the Sultan makes great offers, 
if you will consent to live in Turkey. I 
rejoice in your good fortune, but am sorry 
we shall have to lose you." 

^' I shall not remain here longer than two 
or three years, at farthest," replied Mr.Car- 
penter. '* Ann is lonely away from kin- 
dred and friends, my children could not 
have opportunities for education here, 
and my good father and mother have need 



MAKING SOMETHING. 31 

of our presence. All the money I could 
send would not make up for my absence. 
Moreover, I have many plans for the ben- 
efit of our native village. I have never 
considered money worth the sacrifice of 
usefulness, or happiness ; for the simple 
reason that use and enjoyment are all it is 
good for.'' 

'' I likewise mean to retire from busi- 
ness, and take my comfort, when I have 
made acertain sum," rejoined Mr.Merchant. 

^' Take care you do not waste the 
whole of life getting ready to live," replied 
his friend, smiling. ^' As for leaving busi- 
ness, I never intend to do it ; for I know 
very well that it is impossible to take 
comfort without constant employment." 

Mr. Merchant said no more on the sub- 
ject ; but speaking afterward to the cap- 
tain, with whom he sailed, he remarked, 
'^ Mr. Carpenter informs me he shall not 
stay in Turkey long, notwithstanding the 
generous offers made him by the Sultan. 
He always had peculiar notions. When 
he was a boy, he could never be made to 
understand that making money was ma- 
king any thing ; and he seems to be of 
the same opinion still." 

'* If I were to judge from the rich men 



32 MAKING SOMETHING. 

of my acquaintance," replied the captain, 
'' I should be inclined to think he was not 
far from the right conclusion.'^ 

^ -^ -^ -^ -^ ■it' -^ 

"7^ •IT' T^ •TS" TV "Iv •tP 

When Mr. Merchant was about sixty- 
years old he retired from business, ' to take 
comfort,' as he said. He purchased land 
in his native village, and built an elegant 
country-seat, to reside in during the sum- 
mer months. His mother, now eighty 
years old, talked in the same way she 
used to do when he was a boy. She boast- 
ed to every body that her son had the 
handsomest house in the village, and was 
the only man who kept a carriage. ^^It 
was true," she said, " that Mr. Carpenter 
had two beautiful horses given him by the 
Sultan of Turkey ; but he was a man that 
never made a show with any thing. He 
and his son rode about on horseback, or 
with a light travelling wagon, no more 
stylish than half a dozen others in the 
neighborhood." 

Mrs.Merchant was too fashionable to visit 
quiet Mrs. Carpenter ; but her husband oc- 
casionally called to see his old friend, who 
had long since taken up his residence in 



MAKING SOMETHING. 33 

their native village. He was struck with 
the extreme simpUcity and substantial com- 
fort that pervaded the estabhsnment. In the 
kitchen was every possible mechanical con- 
trivance to diminish labor. In the cham- 
bers were arrangements for hot baths and 
cold baths. The orchard was loaded with 
fruit, the garden was blooming with flow- 
ers. 

There were a great variety of vines, 
trained just enough to prodnce beautiful 
effects, without disturbing the careless 
grace of nature. In pleasant shady places 
were little rustic seats, made of the boughs 
of trees ; and from a hollow log in the 
wall flowed a small stream, which moist- 
ened a rich bank of mosses and water- 
plants. 

The old gentleman was in his carpen- 
ter's shop when his friend arrived, and 
was so busy, he did not see him. 

'^ At your old business, making some- 
thing, eh ?" said Mr.Merchant, striking him 
playfully on the shoulder. ^'Idid not 
know what to do with myself^ this long 
day, and so I have come to ask how you 
are getting on." 

^*I am very glad to see you," replied 
III 3 " 



34 MAKING SOMETHING. 

Mr. Carpenter, cordially shaking his hand. 
^' My plane made such a noise, that I did 
not hear you come in.'' 

'' I was used to that, in old times,'' said 
his friend. '^ As I came through the gar- 
den, and saw all manner of little fountains 
and garden chairs I said to myself. These 
are all John's work, and I dare say I shall 
find him making something." 

^^ Yes, they are my work," replied the 
cheerful old man. '' I enjoy myself very 
much making these pretty arrangements 
for myself and neighbors. My wife has 
a great fancy for cypress vines, and my 
son has drawn an extremely pretty pattern 
of a Gothic arch surmounted by a cross, 
for her to arrange her vines upon. I am 
trying to make the frame in a way that 
will please them." 

''- 1 should suppose a man of your pro- 
perty would hire a mechanic to do it," 
said his visiter. 

^^ I am a mechanic myself," answered 
he, with a good-humored smile ; '^ and 
the older I grow, the more I am convin- 
ced that the pleasure of life is not in hav- 
ing things, but in doing things. Bat walk 
in and see my family. Ann will be ex- 
tremely glad to see her old school-mate 



MAKING SOMETHING. 35 

You will Stay and dine with us, will you 
not 7 We are going to have that real old- 
fashioned Yankee dinner, baked beans and 
an Indian pudding. I remember you used 
to be extravagantly fond of them, when 
we were boys.'^ 

^^ Ah, those were happy days," said Mr. 
Merchant, in a sad tone. ''Every thing 
tasted good then. But now I have the 
dyspepsia to a dreadful degree, and am 
obliged to be extremely careful what I 
eat." 

As they passed the dairy windows, they 
saw Mrs. Carpenter busily moulding the 
butter she had just churned. " There is 
my old school-mate!" exclaimed Mr. Mer- 
chant. '' But, bless mC; how young and 
fresh she looks !" She nodded cheerfully, 
as they passed, and came out to welcome 
the vister, without stopping to change her 
dairy apron. 

"You are like your husband, I see ; you 
like to be making something," said he. 

'' Yes," she replied, '' it is an amusement 
to superintend my own dairy. It is a bles- 
sing that we are not obliged to work too 
hard, in our old age ; but we continue to 
occupy ourselves, from a sincere love of 
employment. When I have spent an hour 



36 MAKING SOMETHING. 

or two in my dairy, or tired myself a lit- 
tle, gathering seeds, or transplanting roots 
in my garden, it seems to add to the plea- 
sure I take in copying my son's architec- 
tural designs, or sketching with him some 
pretty little point in the landscape. You 
know I always had a turn for drawing. 
When my son showed a decided talent for 
it, I thought it would be a benefit to us 
both, if I took lessons with him. He gen- 
erally insists that my sketches are the best; 
for, like most young men, he thinks his 
mother does every thing better than other 
people ; from making pies to making land- 
scapes.'' 

"And I dare say he is in the right," re- 
joined Mr. Merchant. " I remember, when 
you were a girl, you always had a remark- 
ably clever way of doing every thing you 
undertook. But pray tell me how you 
manage to live . all the year round in the 
country ? My wife complains that it is 
very dull to stay here three months in the 
year. I should think you would get sound 
asleep.'' 

" We do get sound asleep," replied Mr. 
Carpenter ; " and that we think a great 
blessing, considering we are particularly 
wide awake when we are awake. We 



MAKING SOMETHING. 37 

have too much to do to find the days tedi- 
ous. Perhaps you recollect that tract of 
land, which they called The Pine Barrens? 
I purchased it all,at a low price. There is 
enough for five small farms. I have cau- 
sed soil from the river to be piled upon it, 
and have taken various means to enrich 
it. I have built five small houses, and let 
them to poor industrious men. They pay 
interest for what I have expended on the 
portion they cultivate. The moment it a- 
mounts to what I have paid, they own the 
land and buildings, provided they have in 
the meanwhile been steady and industri- 
ous, have tasted no intoxicating liquors, 
and regularly sent their children to school.'^ 

'' In other words, you give them the use 
of your capital,'' said Mr.Merchant. '^ But 
what good does that do you ? You make 
no money by it." 

" But I follow my old plan of making 
somctliing^''^ replied Mr. Carpenter, with 
a smile. ^' In the first place, I have made 
for my native town five good farms, instead 
of barren plains. In the next place, I have 
improved the condition of five families, 
and made them happy in the conscious- 
ness that they are daily earning a home of 
their own. This puts heart into their work. 



38 MAKING SOMETHING. 

and makes the labor light. Even little 
boys, of five or six years old, are busy 
picking stones out of the ground, and pil- 
ing them in a line ready to make walls. 
I give every one of them a small wheel- 
barrow, as soon as he has made five heaps 
as high as himself. This clears the ground 
at a rapid rate. Do you remember the old 
Norwegian, who fired my youthful zeal to 
graft the forest trees ? He used to say that 
boys were full of mischief, because nature 
had made them active, and men had given 
them nothing better to do. He insisted, 
that if they had variety enough in their 
employment, work would answer just as 
well as play, and they would really like 
it better than mischief and destruction." 

^' That was certainly the case with your- 
self," said Mr. Merchant. '' It would be 
difficult to hire a boy to work as diligently 
as you did, for nothing but the pleasure 
of it. By the way, some of those trees 
are thriving still. I saw some of the boughs 
full of apple-blossoms, as I rode through 
the woods." 

'' Yes, my friends at the Plains gather 
the fruit, and bring me a barrel full of it 
every year," rejoined Mr. Carpenter. — 
^^ They are as desirous to help me as I am 



MAKING SOMETHING. 39 

to help them ; and there is no happiness in 
the world equal to such a state of feeUng. 
I have given a library to the young peo- 
ple, and add a new book every month. 
Every boy who can show something he 
has made during the month, has the free 
use of the librarj^ One brings a basket, 
another brings spools and rolling pins. A 
poor little fellow, who cannot move with- 
out crutches, sends caps and mittens of his 
own knitting. For him I have made a ve- 
locipede, and no duke was ever prouder of 
his carriage. To every family, who for 
five years have never used a whip on their 
farm, I give a good cow. To every man, 
who has not killed a bird during the same 
time, I give four volumes of Natural His- 
tory, with good engravings. My wife an- 
nually gives a new calico gown to every 
girl, who keeps a neat flower-garden ; and 
to every boy, who has not disturbed a bird's 
nest, or tormented any animal, during the 
year, she gives the picture of a bird, paint- 
ed by herself, and handsomely framed. 
To attend to all this, in addition to our 
own business, gives us plenty of occupa- 
tion all the jear round. It keeps us wide 
awake when we are awake ; and, as I tell 



40 MAKING SOMETHING. 

you, when sleeping time comes, ire sleep 
soundly." 

*^ I wish I could say as much," replied 
Mr. Merchant, mournfully. *'It is very 
tedious to lie awake counting the strokes 
of the clock, hour after hour. But one 
thing is pretty certain, Mr. Carpenter ; you 
will never grow rich, at the rate you are 
going on." 

'^ Are we not rich in the love of these 
poor friends ?" inquired Mr. Carpenter. — 
^' Are we not rich in health and cheerful- 
ness ? Ask your own experience, whether 
the mere possession of money is real 
wealth." 

^* There is no use in arguing the point," 
rejoined Mr. Merchant. "• All the talking 
in the world would never persuade you 
that making money is making any thing. 
You have strange ways of your own. But 
some how or other, while I listen to you, 
I feel twenty years younger. I shall have 
a hundred things done on my place, which 
I never thought of before." 

^4f you would only do a hundred things, 
instead of havifi^ them done," replied Mr. 
Carpenter, " you might even now find out 
the truth of my boyish assertion, that it is 
real fun to make things." 



MAKING SOMETHING. 41 



^ M, ^ ^ ^ ^ J|U 

TP Tf TT ^ •TV' TP T^ 

Mr. Merchant lived in his new country- 
house only three seasons. His own health 
was very poor, and his spirits depressed. 
His wife found the country very dull, and 
complained of being more and more ner- 
vous and dejected. The doctor advised 
her to work in the garden. She walked 
languidly up and down the graveled paths, 
with gloves and a sun-shade. If a flower 
needed to be. tied up, she sent a servant to 
call the gardener ; if seed needed to be gath- 
ered, the gardener must be summoned to 
do it. She told the doctor that gardening 
did her no good. Her only son had no taste 
for books ; but she insisted that he should 
go to college, because it was considered 
genteel. Not being employed in a manner 
suited to his taste and his faculties, he ex- 
pended his energies in mischief, and was 
expelled from college. This made his pa- 
rents more nervous and unhappy than ev- 
er ; and the doctor advised them to go to 
Europe. 

When Mr. Merchant went to bid fare- 
well to the companion of his early days, 
he found him occupied with a large kalei- 



42 MAKING SOMETHING. 

doseope, raised to a level with his eye, and 
made to turn on a swivel, so that one could 
look into it without fatigue. Bright me- 
tallic ores, of various colors, lay behind it, 
in a focus of light, and the rays conveyed 
by a reflector, formed the most gorgeous 
images within the kaleidoscope. 

" You are not yet tired of making some- 
thing,'^ said Mr. Merchant, smiling. 

^'No indeed,'' replied the cheerful old 
nfian. '' The difficulty is, I cannot find 
time to make half the things I contrive in 
my head. Look into this toy of mine. Is 
it not a beautiful sight V 

^'It is beautiful indeed !" exclaimed his 
visiter. '' I should not have imagined that 
any thing so splendid could have been 
made with such a common plaything." 

He walked back and forth, thoughtful- 
ly, then stopped abruptly, and said, " Do 
you know I am more and more convinced 
that you are right ] Making money is not 
making any thmg." 

'• Try a new system, my friend," repli- 
ed Mr. Carpenter, soothingly. *' Prune 
your own trees, plant your own flowers, 
try experiments with your own hands, 
watch the results with your own eyes. In- 
stead of priding yourself on fruit that no 



MAKING SOMETHING. 43 

one else can have, give grafts to all the 
neighborhood. Instead of valuing a flow- 
er according to its cost, value it according 
to its beauty, or its fragrance, and offer 
seed to every one who will rear it. The 
whole country will thus become a garden, 
and your eye will be refreshed wherever 
you go. The longer I have lived, the 
more I have been convinced that the plea- 
sure is in doings not in possessing, and 
that the happiness we give is the only real 
happiness we takeP 

'' h is too late," replied the rich man 
with a sigh. '' The proverb says, ' It is 
hard to teach an old dog new tricks.' 
Even you could not make Towser churn, 
you know. I have come to bid you fare- 
well, my good friend. God bless you. 
When I come back from Europe, I shall 
doubtless find you making something." 

But he never returned to his native 
land. His friend survived him many 
years, and remained active and cheerful 
to the last. At seventy-eight years of age, 
he was found, apparently in a sweet sleep, 
in one of the arbors of his garden. By his 
side was a rocking-horse, which he had 
just finished for the deaf and dumb child 
of a poor neighbor. His spectacles were 



44 



MAKING SOMETHING. 



in one hand, and in the other a strip of 
leather, which he had cut for a bridle. 
The good old man died, as he had lived 
making something. 




45 



THE TULIP AND THE TRI-COLORED 
VIOLET. 




HERE is a sweet little 
flower, which blossoms 
in the gardens of many 
countries, and is known 
by many names. In En- 
glish, it is called Tricol- 
ored Violet, Heart' s-ease, 
Forget-me-not, Ladies'- 
delight, Johnny-jump-up, and Jump-up- 
and-kiss-me. The Irish call it Two-faces- 
under-a-hood. The French call it La 
Pensee-vivace, which means the Lively- 
thought, and La Fleur-de-Napoleon, or 
Napoleon's-Flower. Nearly all its names 
indicate what a bright little favorite it is. 
It was Bonaparte's pet flower; and during 
his reign, the French ladies used to wear 
beautiful imitations of it on all their gar- 
lands and dresses, to please the emperor. 

The modest blossom never thought or 
cared for such distinction. It thrives and 



46 THE TULIP AND VIOLET. 

looks cheerful, wherever you plant it ; 
whether m sand, or clay, or loam. Rich 
or poor, it is always happy, and does the 
best it can to make the world look bright. 
It seems in a hurry to bring us pleasure ; 
for it shows its lively little face as soon as 
ever the snow melts from the garden walks. 
Blessings on the darhng ! I love it in my 
heart ! 

One of these dear little blossoms once 
came out in a pleasant country garden. 
There it played Hide-and-go-Seek with 
snow and sunbeams, weeks before the oth- 
er jflowers ventured to creep out of their 
winter nests. Presently the Crocus came 
along ; then the Daffodil ; then the Crown 
Imperial ; then the Tulips, in their gay 
robes ; and amid their brilliant colors, the 
modest little Violet passed almost unno- 
ticed. 

At last, a great red Tulip, gaudily strea- 
ked with yellow, spoke thus proudly to hei 
unpretending neighbor : '' You little in- 
significant thing, I wonder what you mean 
by standing at my side all the time. From 
day to day, I have expected to see you re- 
turn into the ground, to enrich the soil for 
your superiors. But every morning, if I 
happen to cast my eye to the earth, there 



THE TULIP AND VIOLET. 47 

I see you looking up in my face, as bright 
and pertj as if you thought yourself as 
handsome as any body." 

'^ I am not thinking whether I am beau- 
tiful or not/' replied the happy little flow- 
er ; " but I grow as well as I can, and I 
love to grow. I am not looking up at you, 
thinking myself as well dressed as yoLi 
are. I look ever at the sunny sky, and 
hold up my lips to catch the dew. I am 
sorry it troubles you to see me always here; 
for it gives me joy to throw my little flow- 
ers in Flora's path all the year round, be- 
cause I love to make the gardens and the 
wayside beautiful. You are very hand- 
some, Miss Tulip, and I rejoice in your 
splendor, without wishing it my own. You 
have your advantages, and I have mine. 
I cannot be seen afar off*, as you can ; but 
if I cannot do as much as more brilUant 
flowers, I will gladly do all I can. I shall 
never, like you, be valued in Dutch markets 
at my weight in gold ; but I can do some- 
thing that I like better. I can make all 
the little children love me, and clap their 
hands when I first peep at them. With 
them the early comers are favorites ; and 
I have courage enough to pop my head 
out into the cold air, while you are snug 



48 THE TULIP AND VIOLET. 

asleep under your coverlet. Then I am 
their constant friend all the year round. 

^' I kiss the icy hand of old Winter, and 
nod at him a cheerful good-bye. I laugh 
at the feet of Spring, and take all her ca- 
price kindly, whether she pelts me with 
hail-stones, or washes me with gentle show- 
ers. I am not very strong under the hot 
sunbeams, but I return the glance of Sum- 
mer with the best smile I can ; and I throw 
a garland before the very last footsteps of 
departing Autumn. You glitter in the 
train of Flora for one brief month, and 
then not a leaf is left above ground, to tell 
that you ever tossed your handsome head 
so proudly at poor little me. Tell me 
truly, which do you think is most desira- 
ble, to be the sparkling beauty of a day, 
or the quiet little friend, who cheers all 
seasons, and all weathers with her honest 
sunny face ?" 

The Tulip hung her head, and made no 
answer. But if she were wise, I think she 
would have answered, '' To be the kind 
pleasant friend of every day, this is best. 
Beauty is very agreeable to the eye, but 
uniform good temper is the Heart's Ease 
and Dehght of life.'' 



49 



TO A LITTLE GIRL, WALKING IN 
THE WOOD. 




HITHER art going, dear An- 
nette ? 
Your little feet you'll surely 
wet; 
For don't you see the streamlet flow 
Across the path where you must go ? 
Your shawl is twisted out of place, 
Your bonnet's blowing off your face ; 
You know not how the playful air 
Is tangling up your curly hair. 



Lady, my feet I often wet, 
But it has never harmed me yet. 
I love to have the fresh warm air 
Playing about my face and hair ; 
III. 4 



kk 



60 WALKING IN THE WOOD. 

It makes me lively, bright, and strong ; 
And clears the voice for my morning song. 

But do you often go alone, 
So far away from your own dear home ? 
Not even a dog to frisk and play, 
And guide you on your lonely way ? 

My mother cannot spare the maid, 
And I am not at all afraid. 
The wind plays mischief with my curls, 
But does no harm to little girls. 
There cannot be a lonely way, 
When Spring makes every thing so gay. 
The birds are warbling forth a tune 
To welcome dear delightful June ; 
In the running brook, the speckled trout, 
At sight of my shadow, glides about ; 
The little miller in the grass 
Flies away for my feet to pass ; 
And busy bees, through shining hours, 
Play hide-and-seek in openmg flowers ; 
The bright blue sky is clear and mild ; 
How can there be a lonesome child ? 

Sweet wanderer in the cool green wood, 
I know your little heart is good ; 



WALKING IN THE WOOD. 61 

And that is why the fair earth seems 
Just waking up from heavenly dreams. 
There's something in your gentle voice 
That makes my inmost heart rejoice. 
Pray, if it be not rudely said, 
What's in your basket, little maid ? 

Lady, the nurse, who watched my slumber, 

And told me stories without number, 

Is now too ill to work for pay. 

And she grows poorer every day. 

Custards, and broth, and jellies good, 

My mother sends to her for food. 

I bring the water from her well, 

And all my pretty stories tell. 

Sometimes she loves to hear me read ; 

Her little garden I can weed ; 

And half the money in my purse 

I gladly save for dear old nurse. 

But if I stay to talk so free. 

She'll wonder where Annette can be. 

Farewell, sweet wanderer of the wood, 
I knew your little heart was good ; 
And that is why the fair earth seems 
Just waking up from neavenly dreams. 



52 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 




EORGE Frederic Handel, 
the greatest among musi- 
cians, was born in 1684, 
at Halle, in Saxony. In 
early childhood, he be- 
trayed a very strong in- 
chnation for music. But 
his father, who was a 
physician, wished him to be a lawyer; and 
fearing that music would distract his at- 
tention from study, he carefully kept him 
out of the way of musical company, and 
would not allow a musical instrument of 
any kind to be in the house. It happened 
however, that in some house which he fre- 
quented, he heard a person play on a harp- 
sichord ; and his eager desire to practise 
what he heard was increased by the fact 
that he never heard any instrument at 
home. The boy was so unhappy, that an 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 63 

old servant in the family took pity on him^ 
and helped him to procure a small clavi- 
chord, which he hid in the garret. When 
every body else was asleep, the child prac- 
tised diligently, and soon learned to play 
extremely well, without the slightest in- 
struction. 

When he was about seven years old, 
his father went to visit a son much older 
than Frederic, who lived with the Duke of 
Saxe-Weissenfels. The child had a very 
great desire to go, and being refused, he 
followed the carriage out of the yard, cry- 
ing. His father, seeing the tears roll down 
his cheeks so plentifully, stopped and took 
him in. 

He was allowed to ramble about the 
duke's palace as he liked, and he could not 
resist the temptation to play on a harpsi- 
chord, whenever he met with one. One 
morning, after religious service in the cha- 
pel, he stole up to the organ, and began to 
touch it before the Duke had gone out. — 
Something singular in the style of playing 
attracted the duke's attention, and he in- 
quired who was at the organ 7 He was 
very much surprised when he was told 
that it was a boy of seven years old. He 
immediately sent for the father, and told 



54 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

hini this was no common case ; that the 
boy had very remarkable genius, and ought 
to be allowed to devote his time and ener- 
gies to music, because he would certainly 
distinguish himself in that, and would nev- 
er be able to do any thing else half so well. 
His father, thus entreated, consented that 
he should receive a musical education. He 
improved so rapidly, that before he was 
nine years old, he composed several motets 
of such merit that they were adopted into 
the service of the church ; and from that 
time, he composed a new cantata every 
week, for three years. He afterwards be- 
came the most renowned of musical compo- 
sers. His productions are of a grand and 
elevated character. The Oratorio of the 
Messiah is the most celebrated. 



John Sebastian Bach was born in 1685, 
at Eisenach, in Germany. He belonged to 
a family noted for musical talent for many 
generations ; but he was the most distin- 
guished of them all. His father died when 
he was ten years old, and he was left in 
the care of an elder brother, who was an 
organist. His brother instructed him in 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 55 

music, but he found his lessons too easy, 
and begged for compositions more difficult 
to practise. His brother, not being aware 
of his superior abilities, and fearing he 
would not be sufficiently thorough, refused 
his request. The boy looked with longing 
eyes upon a book containing pieces for the 
clavichord, by the most celebrated compo- 
sers of the day. At last, he got possession 
of it secretly. It was kept in a closet, 
which had a door of lattice-work. He 
could pass his small hand through some of 
the open spaces, and, by rolling the music 
up, could draw it through, and afterward 
replace it carefully. While others were 
asleep, he copied the precious notes ; and 
having no candle, he was obliged to work 
by moonlight. It took him six months to 
finish this laborious task ; but his eager 
desire to practise the difficult music gave 
him patience. He had just copied the last 
notes, when his brother discovered what 
he had been doing, and took the manu- 
script away from him. He was doubtless 
afraid that his pupil would not be suffi- 
ciently slow and thorough in obtaining 
elementary knowledge of music ; there- 
fore, his motive was a good one ; but it 
seemed cruel to deprive the patient little 



56 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

fellow of what he had toiled so long to 
obtain. He did not recover his treasure^ 
until some time after his brother's death. 

He gained great distinction by his talent 
and learning, and his compositions, which 
are mostly for the church, are of a grand 
and profound character, and maintain a 
very high rank in the musical world. One 
of the most observable features of his char- 
acter was uncommon modesty. When ask- 
ed how he had made himself so great a 
master of his art, he answered, ^^ I was 
obliged to be industrious. Whoever works 
as hard, will succeed as well." 



Joseph Haydn was born in 1732, at 
Rohrau, a village of Austria. His father 
was a poor wheelwright, and sexton of the 
parish. Both he and his wife were very 
fond of music. On Sundays he used to 
play on the harp, while she accompanied 
him with her voice. These home concerts 
delighted little Joseph amazingly. At five 
years old, he used to get a board and stick, 
on such occasions, and play that he accom 
panied his parents on a violin. His father 
had a cousin Frank, who was a school* 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 57 

master and musician. He observed that 
the Uttle fellow kept time very accurately, 
and he offered to educate him. The pro- 
posal was very gratefully accepted, and he 
immediately began to teach him Latin, to 
play on the violin and other instruments, 
and to sing at the parish church. But 
Haydn used to say, he gave him more 
cuffs than gingerbread. 

Reiiter, chapel-master at Vienna, came 
to the village in search of singers for St. 
Stephen's cathedral. His attention was 
attracted by the fine voice of Joseph 
Haydn, then eight years old. He was sur- 
prised at the exactness of his execution, 
and the beauty of his voice. Observing 
that he did not perform the shakes, he 
asked him the reason. '^ How can you ex- 
pect me to shake, when my cousin Frank 
does not know how himself?" replied the 
boy. 

" I will teach you," said Reiiter. He 
took him between his knees, and showed 
him how he should rapidly bring together 
two notes, hold his breath, and agitate the 
palate. Joseph immediately made a good 
shake. Reiiter was so delighted, that he 
took a plate of fine cherries, which cousin 
Frank had presented to him, and emptied 



58 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

them all into the boy's pocket. In his 
manhood, Hadyn often told this story with 
a laugh. He said, whenever he performed 
a shake, he still seemed to see those beau- 
tiful cherries. 

Reiiter carried him to Vienna and placed 
him in the choir, where he remained eleven 
years, devoting himself to music with un- 
remitting industry. 

At ten years old, he composed pieces for 
six or eight voices. In his first attempt at 
composition, he was very much troubled 
by want of knowedge. The chapel-master 
gave no instruction in counterpoint, and 
the boy was too poor to pay for a master. 
He bought some old books on the subject, 
which were very imperfect and obscure, 
but he had the patience and industry to 
labor through them unaided. He was 
poor and friendless, and lived in a misera- 
ble garret ; but afterward, when he came 
to be the favorite of princes, he often said 
those youthful days were the happiest of 
his life, because he was always so busy, 
and so eager adding to his stock of knowl- 
edge. 

Haydn became one of the most celebra* 
ted among musicians. His compositions 
are usually of a clear serene character, like 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 59 

a grand or beautiful landscape in the sun- 
shine. The oratorio of the Creation is 
considered his greatest work. 



JOHANN ChRYSOSTOM WoLFGANG GoTT- 

LiEB Mozart, son of a musician of consid- 
erable reputation, was born in 1756, at 
Salzburg, in Germany. When a child of 
three years, he excited remark by the live- 
ly attention he paid to lessons on the harp- 
sichord, given to his sister, then rather 
more than seven years old. It was then 
his favorite amusement to find out thirds, 
and other harmonious intervals on the in- 
strument, and when he discovered them 
he was delighted beyond measure. At 
four years old, after listening to a con- 
'certo, he always remembered the solos per- 
fectly ; and in half an hour he would 
learn to play a minuet on the harpsichord, 
with perfect correctness. Very often, he 
composed little pieces of music for himself, 
as he played. His father used to write 
them down, and some of them are still 
preserved. 

He was early accustomed to see his 
father copying music, and. as soon as ho 



bO MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

♦ 

could hold a perij he began to imitate this 
employment. One day, when the father 
came home from church with a friend, he 
found little Wolfgang very busy with pen 
and ink. 

'' What are you doing there 7" said he. 

^^ Writing a concerto for the clavier," 
replied the boy. 

'^ Doubtless it must be something very 
fine," said the father, smiling ; " let us 
look at it." 

At first, he and his friend began to laugh, 
for the notes looked like a blackberry pud- 
ding, and were almost illegible. The lit- 
tle composer had been so intently occupied 
with arranging his music, that he dived 
his pen deep down into the inkstand, and 
dropped a great blot on the paper every 
time he took it out. These blots he wiped 
away with his hand, and went on scribn 
bling. When his father had looked at the 
manuscript long enough to decipher it, he 
perceived there was both method and mu- 
sic in it. He was affected even to tears at 
such a proof of genius in his little son. 

" See !" said he to his friend; '' this is 
written with a full score of accompani- 
ments, yet how correct it is ! But nobody 
could play it, the music is so very diflicult." 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 61 

^^ It is a concerto," rejoined Wolfgang, 
'^ and must be practised before it can be 
perfornried. This is the way it ought to 
go ;" and he tried to play it, but could on- 
ly give a general idea of the effect he 
wanted to produce. 

The same eagerness and intelligence was 
manifested in every thing to which he turn- 
ed his attention, whether play or study. 
At one time he had a great passion for 
arithmetic; and the floor, chairs, and tables 
were covered with figures; so busy was he 
with his little calculations. In childish 
games he was often so interested, that he 
would entirely forget to eat. But he soon 
ceased to care much about any play, un- 
less music were mixed with it. Andreas 
Schachtner, a musician, was an intimate 
friend of his father, and an especial favor- 
ite with little Wolfgang. When this com- 
panion was with him, he delighted to have 
a march played on some instrument, while 
the family carried his playthings from 
room to room in procession. 

When he was six years old, somebody 
presented him with a little violin, suited to 
his size. On this instrument he displayed 
a more surprising degree of talent, than he 
had before done on the clavier. Soon af- 



62 JMUSICAL CHILDREN. 

ter he received it, his father was one day 
rehearsing a new piece of music, with sev- 
eral other performers, among whom his 
favorite Mr. Schachtner was to play the 
second viohn. Little Wolfgang begged 
hard to play that part himself; but his fa- 
ther told him it was impossible, because 
he had never received any instruction on 
that instrument. The boy answered, that 
he did not think a person needed any 
teaching to play the second violin part. His 
father bade him go away, and not disturb 
them with his teasing. He went off with 
his little violin, crying so bitterly, that his 
good-natured friend begged that he might 
be allowed to come back and play the sec- 
ond violin part along with him. The fa- 
ther consented, provided he would play 
very softly, so as not to confuse the other 
musicians by his mistakes. But the boy 
played so well, that Mr. Schachtner soon 
found there was no occasion for him. He 
therefore quietly laid aside his violin, and 
looked expressively at the happy father, 
who could not help shedding tears of de- 
light when he heard his child play with 
such perfect correctness. He was so en- 
couraged by his own success, that he wan- 
ted to try the first violin. ^'For amuse- 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 63 

ment, we encouraged him to try," says 
Mr. Schachtner, ^^ and we laughed heartily 
at his manner of getting over the difficul- 
ties of this part, with incorrect and ludi- 
crous fingering, indeed, but still in such a 
manner that he never stuck fast." 

He was particularly partial to Mr. 
Schachtner's violin. On account of its 
smooth soft tone, he always called it ' the 
butter fiddle.' One day, when this friend 
came in,Wolfgang was playing on his own 
little violin. '^ Why did you not bring 
your butter fiddle ?" said he ; ^^ If you 
have not tuned it, since I played with you 
the other day, it is half a quarter of a tone 
flatter than my violin." The family all 
laughed at this extreme exactness of ear 
and memory ; but the viohn was sent for, 
and it proved that the boy was correct. 

The sharp sound of a trumpet pained 
his ear exceedingly. He had the greatest 
possible fear of it. His father thought to 
cure him of this terror, by making him ac- 
customed to the sound ; but he turned pale 
and sank on the floor at the first blast, and 
would probably have gone into fits, if the 
sound had been repeated. 

His sister, Maria Anna, nearly five years 
Dlder than he, was a remarkably skilful 



54 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

performer on the clavier. When Wolfgang 
was six years old, their father took both the 
children to Vienna, where they played be- 
fore kings, princes, and nobles, and every 
body was deHghted with them. The em- 
press gave the little musician an elegant 
suit of clothes, with broad golden borders, 
made for her own son, and gave to his sis- 
ter a rich robe of embroidered taffeta, made 
for one of the little princesses. Wealthy 
people invited them, and sent their carri- 
ages for them, and from all classes of peo- 
ple they received the most flattering atten- 
tions. But in the midst of all his honors, 
Wolfgang remained a simple, artless child. 
He loved every body that seemed to have 
a kind heart, and spoke candidly without 
any regard to rank. He jumped up in the 
lap of the empress, and kissed her as hear- 
tily as if she had been his own mother. 

When he heard one of the young princes 
play badly on the violin, he exclaimed, 
' Ah that was out of tune !' But presently, 
he called out, ' Bravo ! that was well 
done !' One day, when two of the little 
princesses were leading him across the 
room, being unused to a floor so highly 
polished, he slipped and fell. One of the 
royal children took no notice of the acci- 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 65 

dent ; but the other, who was afterwards 
Maria Antoinette, queen of France, helped 
him to rise up, and tried to comfort him. 
^^ You are very kind to me,'' said he ; ^' I 
will marry you, because you are so good." 

His disposition was always extremely 
affectionate. Many times a day, he would 
ask his father and mother, and sister, ^ Do 
you love me T and if they did not answer 
very readily, the tears would come into his 
eyes. He composed a little tune, which 
must be sung, with certain formalities, ev- 
ery night before he went to bed. Stand- 
ing in a chair by his father's side, he sang 
one part, while his father sang the other. 
At the pauses, and after the conclusion, he 
would kiss his father on the tip of the nose, 
and, having thus expressed his childish 
love, he would march off to bed perfectly 
contented. 

He continued this custom until after he 
was nine years old. He was always gen- 
tle and obedient, and so attentive to the 
wishes of his parents, that he would never 
accept a present, or eat any thing that was 
offered him, until he had obtained their 
permission. It was never necessary to re- 
peat any orders twice, except on the sub- 
III 5 



66 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

ject of music. He would get so absorbed 
in his own compositions, that he would 
neglect both food and sleep, and it some- 
times became necessary to drive him away 
from the instrument. 

After their journey to Vienna, his father 
took him to the principal cities of Germa- 
ny, Bavaria, France, Italy, and England. 
He was then eight years old. He played 
admirably on the clavier, the organ, and 
the violin ; could sing or play the most 
difficult music at first sight, and make an 
unlimited variety of new melodies to any 
bass musicians chose to offer him. In vain 
they tried to puzzle the child ; he could 
always do, with perfect ease, more than 
they required of him. At Heidelberg, his 
performance on the great city organ aston- 
ished the people so much, that his name 
was ordered to be engraved on the instru- 
ment, as a perpetual remembrancer. 

At public concerts, it was common to try 
him with the most difficult pieces of Han- 
del, Bach, and other great composers, which 
he always played at sight, with perfect 
correctness and proper expression. John 
Christian Bach, music-master to the queen, 
took him between his knees, and played a 
few bars of a difficult sonata ; when he 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 67 

paused, the boy commenced ; then Bach 
played a few bars again ; and thus play- 
ing by turns, they went through the whole, 
as perfectly as if done by one pair of hands. 

A writer in Paris, says : '^ I have seen 
this boy engage in contests of an hour and 
a half s duration^ with musicians who ex- 
erted themselves to the utmost, and even 
perspired great drops, to acquit themselves 
with credit in an affair that cost him no fa- 
tigue. He has routed and put to silence 
organists who were thought very skilful in 
London. He is moreover one of the most 
amiable creatures that can be conceived. 
In all that he does and says, there is spir- 
ituality and feeling, adorned by the pecu- 
liar grace and gentleness of childhood." 

In the midst of all his public concerts, 
and the multitude of people who came to 
see him, he was so diligent, that he found 
time to compose a variety of symphonies, 
sonatas, quartetts, &c. which were greatly 
admired. The Hon., Daines Barrington 
heard it often repeated by envious people, 
that the boy was not so great a prodigy as 
he seemed ; that he studied and practised 
music beforehand, and then pretended he 
played it at first sight. In order to satisfy 
himself on this subject, he carried to him 



68 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

the score of a new duet of his own, which 
no person had seen, and the child instantly- 
played and sang one of the parts, without 
the slightest effort. A succession of exper- 
iments were tried to puzzle him, but in 
vain. Yet he was such a mere child in 
habits and manners, that Mr. Harrington 
says, ^^ While he was playing to me, a fa- 
vorite cat came in ; upon which he left the 
harpsichord, nor could we bring him back 
again for a considerable time. He would 
likewise run about the room with a stick 
between his legs, by way of a horse.'' 

The same boyish spirit is shown in the 
following letter about his bird, written to 
his sister, from Naples. '^ Pray write to 
to me how is Mr. Canary ? Does he sing 
still ? Does he pipe still ? Do you know 
why I think of the Canary ? Because there 
is one in the front room here, which makes 
a G just like our Canary." He meant 
that the bird sounded the note G in the 
same manner. 

His simple affectionate nature always 
remained uninjured by fame or flattery. 
Once, when he woke in the night, he be^ 
gan to cry bitterly. Being asked the rea- 
son, he named over several favorite musi- 
cians, with whom he was in the habit of 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 69 

playing at home in Germany, and said 
that he wanted to see them so badly, he 
could not help crying. 

His father writes : ^^ At Florence, we 
met an English boy, who plays exquisite- 
ly, and who is just of Wolfgang's size and 
age. The other day, this charming boy 
brought his violin to us, and played the 
whole afternoon. Wolfgang accompanied 
him on his violin. The following day, we 
dined with the treasurer of the grand duke ; 
and there the two boys played the whole 
afternoon ; not however as boys, but as 
men. Little Thomas accompanied us 
home, and cried bitterly on learning that 
we were going to set off the next day ; but 
finding that our journey was fixed for noon, 
he came to us by nine in the morning, and 
presented Wolfgang with some verses he 
had got a poetic friend to write for him the 
night before. He accompanied our coach 
to the city gates. I wish you could have 
witnessed this scene." This English boy, 
named Thomas Linley, was drowned when 
he was twenty-one years old. Mozart 
never forgot him. In later life, he seldom 
met an Englishman, without speaking of 
this early friend. 

When the family returned to Vienna, 



70 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

they encountered a great deal of trouble, 
arising from the envy of musicians, who 
had grown weary of hearing the praises of 
young Mozart, and were vexed to be thus 
eclipsed by his genius. They said that his 
success was owing to trickery, that he was 
older than he passed for, &c. The good 
father tried to satisfy their doubts, by giv- 
ing them the most undeniable proofs of his 
own veracity, and of his son's remarkable 
powers. But they did not wish to be con- 
vinced. For fear they might be compelled 
to acknowledge his merits, or lose their 
own reputation as good judges of music, 
they would avoid hearing him ; and then 
if asked what they thought of any compo- 
sition or performance of Mozart, they could 
answer, ' We have not heard it.' There 
is too much of this mean and selfish spirit 
among artists. Indeed, the least particle 
of it is too much. We ought to delight in 
all beautiful works of art, as we do in the 
sunshine and flowers. 

When Mozart was twelve years old, he 
composed an opera, at the suggestion oi 
the emperor. But the jealous musicians 
repeated it so badly, and put so many ob- 
stacles in the way, that his father was o- 
bliged to give up having it performed. 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 71 

Such ungenerous efforts had no perma- 
nent effect. Every year of his life, Mozart 
increased his fame by new and beautiful 
productions; and though he died at thirty- 
five years of age, he left a name renowned 
throughout the world. No music excels 
his in tenderness of expression, in simple 
graceful melodies, and beautiful changes 
of harmony. Modern improvements in 
the art are more owing to him, than to any 
other composer. 

No one ought to try to compose music, 
unless it comes to him by nature. If a 
person has a good ear, patience and prac- 
tice will enable him to perform well ; but 
nothing original or beautiful can be com- 
posed, without that gift of the soul called 
genius. A boy, who could play extremely 
well on the piano, asked Mozart to teach 
him how to compose music. The great 
artist told him to wait. ^^ But yoii compo- 
sed when you were a boy,'' replied he, 
somewhat abashed ; ^' and I thought you 
might tell me what books would best teach 
me how to do it.'' Mozart patted him on 
the cheek kindly, and answered, ^'I com- 
posed because I could not help it, and I 
never asked how to do it." He pointed tc 
his ear, head, and heart, and said play- 



72 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

fully, ^^ If the music is there, all will come 
right. If not, books will not bring it.'' 



William Crotch was born in Norwich, 
England, in 1775. His father, who was a 
carpenter, had made a small organ for his 
own amusement ; and, when William was 
a year and a half old, he would touch the 
key-note to show what tune he wanted 
played ; and if his father did not under- 
stand him, he would play the first three or 
four notes himself When he was two 
years and three weeks old, a celebrated 
musical lady came to play upon his father^s 
organ. The child was amazingly delight- 
ed to hear her ; and after she was gone, 
he became so fretful that nothing his mo- 
ther could do would quiet him. When 
carried through the dining room, he spread 
his hands toward the organ, and cried, and 
would not be pacified till they allowed 
him to go and bend down the keys with his 
little fists. There was nothing very sur 
prising in this, for children always want 
to make a jingling noise. But the next 
day, when his mother went out and left 
him alone with his elder brother, he would 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 7o 

not rest, till his brother blowed the bellows 
of the organ, while he played. At first, he 
rattled over the keys without any order, 
just as any very little child would do ; but 
in a few minutes, he played God Save the 
King so well, that his father, at work in 
the garret, came down to see who was at 
the organ. He could hardly believe his 
own senses, when he saw that it was little 
William. He waited with impatience for 
the mother to come home. When she ar- 
rived, he put on a very mysterious look, 
and asked her to go into the dining-room, 
where he had something very curious tc 
show. She was as much surprised and 
pleased as the father had been, to hear their 
little one play God save the King. One 
part he did not play with perfect correct- 
ness, because two succeeding sounds were 
octaves, and he could not stretch his little 
fingers to reach the eighth note. After 
that, he was allowed to play on the organ 
whenever he liked. He learned diff'erent 
airs with facility, and sometimes intermix- 
ed them with little variations of his own, 
which were always agreeable, because his 
ear had a natural aversion to inharmonious 
sounds. 

At two years old, he was often sent for 

mm 



74 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

to amuse the public by his uncommon tal- 
ent. When he was three years old, his 
mother took him to Cambridge and London, 
where he excited much astonishment by 
his performances on the organ. In his 
fourth year, he played before the royal 
family, at St. James's palace, with great 
applause ; and every body was charmed 
with his artless, playful, infantile manner. 

He could then repeat any tune he heard 
once, and if he heard the key of an in- 
strument struck in the next room, his ear 
was so sensitive to sound, that he could in- 
stantly tell what note it was. So many 
people went to hear him, that he would 
sometimes get very tired, and could not be 
coaxed to play any more ; but if any one 
else struck a wrong note, he would rouse 
up, and instantly place his finger on the 
right one. 

He afterward received regular instruc- 
tion at Oxford, where he was appointed 
organist, in his eighteenth year, and after- 
ward doctor and professor of music. He 
was a very well-informed and modest man; 
but he had merely a talent for acquiring, 
without genius for creating. He gave 
lessons on the piano for twenty years, and 
arranged for that instrument many compo- 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 75 

sitions of the first masters. Of his own 
compositions, only one excited any atten- 
tion, and that was an oratorio called Pal- 
estine. 



Samuel Wesley, the son of a clergyman, 
and nephew of the celebrated John Wes- 
ley, founder of the Methodists, was born 
at Bristol, England, in 1766. He first at- 
tracted attention by the great deUght he 
took in hearing his older brother play. If 
the music teacher came, and Charles began 
his lesson without first calling little Sam- 
uel, he would cry as if he had been beaten. 
During the lesson, he would stand near 
his brother all the time, and play on a 
chair, as if he were accompanying him. 
Sometimes, when he was practising Han- 
del's oratorios, in the evening, he would 
join in with his voice, and even find fault 
with the playing, when he thought it in- 
correct. 

When he was between four and five 
years old, he got hold of the oratorio of 
Samson, and by that alone he taught him- 
self to read words ; after that, he learned 
the notes, and soon after taught himself to 



76 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

write. At JSve years old, he knew all Han* 
del's Messiah by heart, both words and 
notes. Whenever he heard his brother be- 
gin to play, he could tell at once from 
what composer the music was taken, and 
what part of the sonata, or overture, it was. 

He composed much music before he 
could write. The airs of an oratorio call- 
ed Ruth, he composed before he was six 
years old, and laid them up in his memory 
till he was eight, and then wrote them 
down. He was never taught to write mu- 
sic, but merely from his own observation 
he could write out all the parts of any 
thing he composed ; and though he wrote 
rapidly, he seldom made any blot or mis- 
take. 

Dr. Boyce, a musician of considerable 
distinction, called to see him one day, when 
he was eight years old, and said to his fa- 
ther, ^^ Sir, I hear you have got an Eng- 
lish Mozart in your house. Young Linley 
tells me wonderful things of him.'' Sam- 
uel was called, and soon brought forward 
the score of his oratorio of Ruth, which he 
was then writing down. The doctor was 
extremely well pleased with it. '' These 
airs are some of the prettiest I have ever 
seen," said he. ''• This boy writes by na- 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 77 

ture as true a bass, as I can by rule and 
study." 

Before he was ten years old, he could 
perform the most dijfficult music on the 
harpsichord, or organ, at j&rst sight, not 
only with correctness, but with taste. 

When he was eleven years old, eight of 
his compositions for the harpsichord were 
published, with his engraved likeness. — 
They are said to evince much science and 
taste, but did not become fashionable, be- 
cause they contained passages too difficult 
for most performers. At the same age, he 
composed a march for one of the regiments 
of Royal Guards. The Hon. Daines Bar- 
rington, thinking it would please the boy 
to hear his march performed by the band, 
took him to the parade ground. It was 
the first piece they played ; but when Mr. 
Barrington asked him if he was pleased 
with the performance, he answered, ' By 
no means.' He was then introduced to 
several of the musicians, tall stout fellows, 
and they were told that this boy, who had 
a remarkably delicate ear for music, was 
not pleased with their manner of playing 
the first march. 

^' What do you complain of 7'' inquired 
one of the band, carelessly. 



78 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

^^ I complain that you have not done jus- 
tice to my composition/' replied the boy. 

'' Your composition !" they exclaimed, 
and looked at him with a mixture of sur- 
prise and derision. 

With modest calmness he answered, ^ ^ Yes, 
gentlemen, that march is my composition, 
and you have almost spoiled it in the play- 
ing.'^ They excused themselves by say- 
ing that they had exactly copied the man- 
uscript placed in their hands. 

^'The hautbois and bassoons have done 
so," he replied, "but the French horns 
have not.'' The original score was pro- 
duced, and he pointed out the mistakes 
that had been made. 

The musician listened to him very re- 
spectfully, and the march was played again 
more correctly, at the end of the parade, 
which, with military exactness, closed at 
precisely five minutes after ten. Mr. Har- 
rington asked him whether he was pleased 
this time ? He said, " Very much ; but it 
ought not to be reserved for the last piece ; 
because the great clock of the Horse Guards 
strikes ten before it is finished, and the 
tone of the clock does not harmonize with 
the key-note of the march." 

This boy had nobler gifts than a quick 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 79 

ear, and a talent for music ; he had deU- 
cate feelings, and a kind heart. Mr. Bar- 
rington asked him to compose an easy- 
melody for master Crotch, then little more 
than two years old. He did so, and they 
went together to hear him play it. But 
William was tired, and out of humor. — 
Master Wesley did all he could to please 
him. He even consented to play upon a 
cracked violin for his amusement. But 
the baby was not in a mood to entertain 
visitors, and he could not be coaxed. 

When the company found out who young 
Wesley was, they insisted that he should 
play on the organ ; but this he constantly 
declined. As he was generally very will- 
ing to oblige people, Mr. Barrington, on 
their way home, inquired why he had re- 
fused to play, when so much urged. ^' I 
did not like to do it," he replied ; '^ I was 
afraid the friends of little master Crotch 
might think I wished to shine at his ex- 
pense." 

Samuel Wesley lived to be nearly sev- 
enty-two years old. He composed a great 
deal of organ music, which maintains a 
high rank in the opinion of scientific 
judges. He was a great admirer of Sebas- 
tian Bach, and, like him, his music was 



80 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

mostly of an elevated and solemn charac- 
ter, such as anthems, motets, and other 
compositions for the church. 



Angelica Oatalini was born in 1784, at 
Sinigaglia, in Italy. She was educated at 
the convent of St. Lucia, near Rome. 

When only seven years old, her full rich 
voice attracted great attention. Immense 
crowds came to listen to her, and there 
was so much pushing and disputing for a 
chance to get near enough to hear, that the 
magistrates were obliged to interfere. In 
order to preserve the peace of the town, 
they forbade her singing any more at the 
convent. At fourteen years old, she ap- 
peared as a public performer, and soon be- 
came very celebrated throughout Europe. 



Mrs. Wood, who is such a favorite sing- 
er, both in Europe and this country, like- 
wise gave very early indication of musical 
talent. When she was five or six years 
old, being on board a steam-boat, for the 
first time, she was much attracted by the 



MUSICAL CHILDPwEN. 81 

puffing of the engine. ^^ What makes that 
noise ?" she asked. Being told it was the 
steam going off, she listened very atten- 
tively ; then running up to her father, she 
exclaimed, ^' Papa, the steam is going off 
in the key of A." He struck his tuning- 
fork, to ascertain the pitch of sound, and 
smiled to find it was just as his little girl 
had said. 



NicoLo Paganini was born at Genoa, in 
Italy, in 1784. As soon as he could hold 
a violin, his father made him sit beside 
him, and play almost from morning till 
night. This injured the poor child's health 
so seriously, that through his whole life he 
was nervous, feeble, and haggard in his 
appearance. His father is said to have 
been a very avaricious man, and to have 
cared less for his child's welfare, than for 
making money by his talent. Nicolo was 
urged on by his mother, likewise, who was 
very ambitious that he should become a 
famous musician. When he was a very 
little fellow, she held him on her knees, 
and told him she had dreamed that an an- 
III. 6 nn 



82 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

gel came to her and said her son would be 
one of the most celebrated performers in 
the world. 

When he was in his eighth year, he com- 
posed a sonata, and his performances were 
considered so remarkable, that he was of- 
ten called upon to play in churches, and 
at musical parties. His first public ap- 
pearance was at Genoa, when he was in 
his ninth year. The applause he received 
greatly excited his father's hopes of mak- 
ing him very profitable. He took him to 
Rolla, a distinguished musician in Parma, 
and asked him to give him lessons. When 
they called, he was ill in bed, and the 
boy, being left in an adjoining room, began 
to play one of Rolla' s concertos, which he 
saw lying there. The composer started 
up in his bed, much excited, and could 
hardly believe that what he heard was the 
performance of a little boy. '' I can teach 
him nothing," said he ; " you had better 
go to Paer.'' 

Paer was a distinguished composer oi 
operas, and Nicolo studied under his direc- 
tion six months. During this period, he 
composed twenty-four fugues for four 
hands, without the aid of any instrument ; 
for Paer insisted that he should put the 



Ml/SICAL CHILDREN. 83 

compositions on paper directly from his 
own head. 

His father took him to all the principal 
cities of Italy, and made a great deal of 
money by the exhibition of his talent. He 
appears to have been a very parsimonious 
and severe man, and the manner in which 
he treated his nervous and impressible son 
had a gloomy effect on the artist's charac- 
ter through life. 

Paganini became celebrated throughout 
the civilized world. Every where his play- 
ing produced the greatest excitement.— 
Poets called his violin a ' nest of birds and 
sunbeams,' because the tones were so won- 
derfully bright and melodious. When he 
broke three strings, and played entire pieces 
on one string only, many of the ignorant 
multitude believed he dealt in witchcraft; 
and when he died, the Catholic church in 
Italy refused to bury him in consecrated 
ground, on the charge that he was a ma- 
gician, w^hom the devil assisted to perform 
such extraordinary things. But the only 
magic he used was great perseverance, and 
the spirit that aided him was a natural 
genius for music. 



84 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 



Ole Bull was born in 1810, in Bergen, 
Norway. He belonged to a very musical 
family, and was observable in infancy for 
extreme quickness of ear. He had an un- 
cle who played well on the violoncello, and 
had a curious collection of musical instru- 
ments. Little Ole delighted to visit this 
uncle, who was very fond of him, and lik- 
ed to amuse himself with the child's sus- 
ceptibility to sound. When he was three 
years old, he often put him in the violon- 
cello case, and hired him with sweetmeats 
to stand still while he played. The candy 
would keep him quiet for a few minutes ; 
but his little foot soon began to beat time, 
and his eyes grew brighter and brighter. 
At last, the music would set all his nerves 
dancing so, that he could not possibly stay 
in the violoncello case ; then his uncle 
would laugh. 

When the child went home, he would 
take the yard measure, instead of a violon- 
cello, and, with a small stick for a bow, 
would imitate all the movements of the 
tune he had heard. He could hear it in 
bis own mind all the time ; but for fear 
father and mother would not understand 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 85 

his silent tunCj as well he did, he would 
stop to explain how beautifully the bass 
came in, at some particular place. 

When he was five years old, his uncle 
gave him a small violin, brightly varnish- 
ed, and as yellow as a lemon. This made 
him almost crazy with joy. He hugged it, 
and kissed it ; it seemed to him so very 
beautiful, that little yellow violin ! He 
was a happy child, when he first drew a 
tune out of it, with his own little fingers. 

To the surprise of his family, he imme- 
diately played well on it ; though, like lit- 
tle Mozart, he had never received any in- 
struction. But from the time he could run 
alone,he had been present at frequent con- 
certs, both at home and at his uncle's, and 
he had observed how the musicians man- 
aged their instruments. He had no diffi- 
culty in remembering tunes ; on the con- 
trary, if one pleased him, he could never 
get it out of his head. On his little yellow 
vioHn, he played a quartett of Pleyel's, to 
the musical club in the habit of meeting at 
his father's house. They were perfectly 
astonished, and inquired who had taught 
the boy. But nobody could tell, any bet- 
ter than they could explain how the mock- 
ing-bird learned to imitate the bob-o'-link. 



86 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

When he was eight years old, a French- 
man arrived in Bergen, with vioUns to sell. 
One of them, of a very pretty form, and 
bright red in its color, gained Ole's heart 
at first sight, and he pleaded with his fa- 
ther, till he consented to buy it. It was 
purchased late in the afternoon, and put 
away in its case. Ole slept in a small bed, 
in the same apartment with his parents, 
and the coveted instrument was in an ad- 
joining room. 

" 1 could not sleep," said he, ^' for think- 
ing of my new violin. When I heard fa- 
ther and mother breathing deep, I stole out 
of bed, lighted a candle, and, in my night- 
clothes, did go on tiptoe, just to take one 
little peep. I opened the case. The vio- 
lin was so red as a cherry, and the pretty 
little pearl screws did smile at me so ! 1 
must touch it. I pinched the strings, just 
a little, with my fingers. Then it did 
smile at me ever more and more. I took 
up the bow and looked at it. It said to me 
that it would be so pleasant to try it across 
the strings ! So I did try it a little ; just 
a very Uttle ; and it did sing to me so 
sweetly ! Then I crept away farther off 
from the bed-room. At first, I did play 
very soft. I made very, very little noise. 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 87 

But presently I did begin a capriccio, which 
I liked very much ; and it did go ever 
louder and louder : and I forgot that it 
was midnight, and that every body was a- 
sleep. The capriccio did go ever wilder 
and wilder, and I did think of nothing, till 
I hear a step behind me. It was my fath- 
er. ^ What do you mean by making such 
a noise, and waking up the whole house 
at this time of night?' said he. In my 
fright, I did drop my little red violin on the 
floor, and it was broken. They sent it to 
a doctor the next day, but it did never re- 
cover its health.'' 

Ole was a very strong and active child. 
He learned every thing fast, and did every 
thing with all his might. He would leap 
fences like a deer, turn somersets like a 
harlequin, and climb trees like a squirrel. 
Because he was always darting and driv- 
ing about, his family called him ^The Bat' 

At school, he seemed quite stupid, if the 
master insisted upon his stating sums on 
the slate, and working them out by the old 
method ; but if left to pursue his own 
course, he would do the sum in his mind, 
and give the correct answer in far less 
time than it would take to state it. He 
was never taught to read music. He knew 



88 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

the sound each note ought to have, long 
before he could call it by name ; and while 
he was still a very young child, he learned 
to read music, in all its complicated vari- 
ations, merely by observing the musicians. 
When he was ten years old, a foreign 
music-master persuaded his father that it 
was absolutely necessary that he should be 
taught music by rule. Accordingly, he be- 
gan to take lessons. He was told that he 
must handle his bow differently, must hold 
his violin quite otherwise, must practise 
music by note, and not by his ear, and 
when he was playing an air, he must 
break himself of the habit of composing 
variations of his own. The boy, wishing 
to please his father, tried to do the best he 
could ; but the movements of his soul were 
too rapid, and he had been too long accus- 
tomed to a quicker process. He could not 
learn any thing in the way his master pro- 
posed. The more he tried, the more he 
was annoyed and distressed. At last, it 
made him so nervous, that in the midst of 
his lesson he screamed aloud. His father, 
aware that he was by nature unlike other 
children, became convinced that it was not 
wise to subject him to such painful drill 
ing, when he could learn so much faster in 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 89 

his own way. Indeed, there seemed to be 
no need of troublmg him thus ; for even at 
that early age, he could play a capriccio 
of Paganini's, which older and skilful mu- 
sicians considered too difficult for them. 

His aversion to lessons from his music- 
master did not arise from indolence ; for 
he was earnest and diligent in learning 
whatever he undertook. It was merely 
that he had a process of his own, which 
answered better for his keen quick nature, 
than the common and slower method. 

In manhood, Ole Bull became very cel- 
ebrated. No violinist, except the famous 
Paganini, ever drew such crowds to hear 
him. He could play a distinct part on 
each of the strings at once, so that it soun- 
ded like four violins. This is an extreme- 
ly difficult task, and no other performer 
ever had sufficient strength and pliability 
of muscle to execute it. His compositions 
are full of tenderness and poetic feeling. 
Kings have presented him with diamonds, 
and poets have sung his praises in a variety 
of languages. He visited the United States 
in 1843, and almost every American child 
has heard of his sweet music. 



90 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 



Franz Liszt was bom in 1811, in Reid- 
ing, a village of Hungary. His father, 
who was a musician of high reputation, in 
the service of Prince Esterhazy, soon per- 
ceived that the boy inherited more than 
his own talent. At a very early age, he 
would repeat on the piano the tunes he 
had heard played, and he did it with so 
much spirit and expression, that his father 
could not help embracing him. '' Ah, my 
son,'^ he would say, ^^ I see that you will 
be all that I have imagined and wished to 
be in music, but have never been able to 
realize. My life will be renewed in you, 
and bear its fruit.'' 

At nine years old, Franz made his first 
appearance in public, in the neighboring 
city of Oedenberg. He performed a diffi- 
cult concerto, and concluded with a fanta- 
sia, which he composed as he went along. 
The audience were surprised at his skilful 
playing, and still more by the genius indi- 
cated in his extemporaneous composition. 
His father wept tears of joy, friends em- 
braced him, and Prince Esterhazy put fifty 
ducats into his little hand, in gratitude for 
the pleasure he had received. He gave 
concerts in other cities with similar success. 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 91 

At his first performance in Vienna, the 
celebrated Beethoven was present, and 
gave his warmest words of praise and en- 
souragement. Wealthy men interested 
themselves to increase his father's salary, 
that the remarkable boy might have the 
best possible means of obtaining a thorough 
musical education. All this applause did 
not make him vain or idle. It only stimu- 
lated him to greater exertions, lest his 
friends should be disappointed in their ex- 
pectations. He studied with the most un- 
remitting industry, and of course made 
rapid progress. 

Before he was fourteen years old, he 
composed an opera, called The Palace of 
Love. It was performed at the royal acad- 
emy of music, in Paris, with great ap- 
plause. 

As he passed into manhood, his musical 
progress, through the various cities of Eu- 
rope, was a succession of triumphs, though 
not unattended by the envious enmity, 
which always follows great success. His 
health being enfeebled by constant exer- 
tion, he went to Italy, for the benefit of the 
pure and balmy air. He was playing to 
crowded houses, when he heard of a great 
inundation of the Danube, in Hungary, by 



92 MUSICAL CHILDREN. 

which thousands had lost their property ; 
and he resolved at once to return to his 
native land. He was received with un- 
bounded joy. Hungary was proud of her 
distinguished artist. Mothers pointed him 
out to their children as he passed, and told 
how famous the Mittle Franz' had made 
himself, and how he could play a ^ whole 
book full of beautiful stories on the piano.' 
He played to overflowing houses, and 
gave the proceeds to cities that had suffer- 
ed by the inundation. This raised the en- 
thusiasm of his countrymen to the highest 
pitch. He was complimented with seren- 
ades, and whenever he appeared in the 
street, or in public places, he was greeted 
with huzzas, and garlands were showered 
upon him. It must do a man's heart good 
thus to benefit his native land, and at the 
same time give delight to thousands by his 
genius. 

^ M, M, M, ^ ^ ^ 

T'C" 'Ji- ^ T^ TT TT TV" 

Very few, since the creation of the world, 
have had such remarkable musical endow- 
ments as those I have mentioned. Men 
are as various in their gifts as are the flow- 
ers of the field. One can write a beauti- 



MUSICAL CHILDREN. 



93 



ful book, but cannot compose an opera ; 
another can invent a valuable machine, 
but cannot write a book. Some can only 
build well the edifices that others have 
planned ; and some can only perform skil- 
fully the music that others have composed. 
But every human soul would be beautiful, 
if each would delight in the talent of oth- 
ers, and earnestly improve its own, whe- 
ther great or small. 




94 



A DREAM. 




HEN I am awake, my 
soul looks outj through 
my senses, on this visi- 
ble world of green grass 
and blue sky, as a little 
child looks out through 
an open window. But 
there is another inner 
world, invisible to the senses ; and when 
eyes and ears are closed in sleep, my soul 
visits this inner world, and there sees and 
hears many beautiful things. Sometimes 
I remember the things I see ; and when 1 
remember them, they are called dreams. 

Once, in my sleep, I seemed to be in a 
most beautiful place. There were little 
rills of the clearest water, like fluid crys- 
tal in silver channels. There was a mild 
golden transparency in the light, and the 
soft shadows of the foliage played grace- 



A DREAM. 96 

fully with it, as they danced about over 
the verdant lawn. Among this play of 
shadows and golden sunshine, were groups 
of little children, with happy eyes and 
shining hair. 

I wanted to ask them what place this 
was, where all things seemed so very beau- 
tiful ; but as I moved toward them, they 
all began to jump and sing, and their joy- 
ful voices sounded like a chorus of silver 
bells. I said to them, " Why are you so 
glad, httle ones?'' They answered, ''A 
good liitle child is dying ; and we rejoice 
because the angels will bring her to live 
with us." 

'^ How will she get here ?" I asked. A 
little one, who was caressing a dove on her 
arm, looked up in my face and smiled, as 
she pointed to an arch in the distance, cov- 
ered with evergreen vines. '* The good 
child will come through that arch," she re- 
plied. " Those who live on the earth call 
it Death ; but we call it The Entrance in- 
to Life." 

^' Is she afraid to come?" said I. 

" She ivas afraid," they answered ; ^'for 
a little while ago, she could not see how 
bright and pleasant it is on this side of the 
arch. But now she sees us, and hears our 



96 



4. DREAM. 



happy voiceSj and she wishes to come to 
us. Her mother stands weeping by her 
bedside, and she wonders what makes her 
babe smile so sweetly ; for the mother does 
not see us, or hear the angels singing ; but 
the child does.'' 

When 1 turned to watch for the little one 
coming from the outer world, she had al- 
ready passed through the evergreen arch, 
and came bounding toward her bright com- 
panions. They ran to meet her, offering 
doves and flowers ; and I heard a sound 
as of golden harps from above, and in har- 
mony with the harps were many sweet 
voices singing, '^ The mortal child has be- 
come an angel." 



97 



WILLIAM BURTON, 
THE BOY WHO WOULD BE A SAIEOR. 





[ILLIAM BURTON 

was a bright intel- 
ligent boy, the son 
of a farmer in Connec- 
ticut. The neighbours 
all agreed that he could 
plough better than any 
man in the county ; and 
it was a common proverb to say, ^ as neat 
as William Burton's garden.' He was ex- 
tremely industrious. The only relaxation 
he allowed himself was reading, and at- 
tending an evening school, that was kept 
in the village where he resided. He sel- 
dom visited, except at the house of Mr. 
James Hall, who lived but a few rods from 
III 7 «o 



98 WILLIAM BURTON. 

his father's dweUing. Mary Hall, just 
two years younger than himself, attended 
the same evening school ; and whenever 
the weather was stormy, or the snow deep, 
William always asked her to ride in his 
sleigh, or pung^ as it was called. She was 
an active, blooming girl ; with cheeks as 
red as health and industry could make 
them, and a lovely expression of kindness 
and good-nature, that always lighted up 
her face, like sunshine. 

William and Mary seemed to each other 
like brother and sister. They had been 
playmates from their earliest infancy, they 
had always attended the same school, and 
Mary's own and only brother, seven years 
older than herself, was generally absent at 
sea. Mrs. Burton loved Mary as if she 
had been her own daughter. The sound 
of her light footsteps always made her feel 
happy, and she would smile affectionately, 
as she said, ' There comes my busy bee.' 

Mary well deserved the good opinion of 
her friends ; for she was uncommonly ca- 
pable and industrious, fond of her work, 
and fond of her books, and always busy 
with one or the other. William was ex- 
tremely attached to her. The best berries 
<*nd the finest flowers were always given 



WILLIAM BURTON. 99 

to his mother, and the next best were al- 
ways reserved for ^ Uttle busy bee.' 

Many and many a pleasant sleigh-ride 
they had home from school, during the 
winter-evenings, when the earth was all 
covered with snow, and the frosty trees 
danced and sparkled in the moonbeams. 
Sometimes they repeated their lessons, and 
puzzled each other with curious questions 
in arithmetic ; and sometimes they talked 
about brother Silas, and the wonderful 
things he would bring home, after a two 
year's voyage. 

Mr. Hall's parlour was already well fill- 
ed with shells, and coral, and war-clubs 
from the Sandwich Islands, and carved 
boxes, and painted glass from China. The 
sight of these things, and the frequent con- 
versations he heard about Silas's adven- 
tures, inspired William with an earnest de- 
sire to become a sailor. Having once 
taken this thought into his head, it grew 
stronger and stronger every day. He bor- 
rowed all the books of voyages he could 
hear of for miles round, and all his leisure 
monients were employed in making little 
imitations of Otaheite canoes, and New- 
Zealand spears. 

At last, he confessed to his father that 



100 WILLIAM BURTON. 

his happiness depended upon going to sea. 
Mr. Burton was very sorry to hear this. 
He represented to him how happy he was 
at home, and how much hardship and suf- 
fering he would have to endure if he be- 
came a sailor. His mother wept, and beg- 
ged of him to give up the idea. She ask- 
ed who would take care of the farm, when 
his father was old ; and what she should 
do for a son to wait upon her, if he persis- 
ted in leaving them. 

'^ Oh, Mary will wait upon you, dear 
mother," replied William ; '^ You know 
she loves you as well as she does her own 
mother." 

^' That is true," rejoined the anxious pa- 
rent ; '' but she cannot make your place 
good, William ; and then how lonesome 
poor Mary will be. You have always 
been together since you were babes ; and 
I am sure it will almost break her heart, if 
you go away." Mrs. Burton wiped her 
eyes as she spoke, and laying her hand af- 
fectionately on his head, she added, ^^ Wil- 
liam, if you love your mother, you will 
make up your mind to stay at home." 

The boy was impressed with the tender 
solemnity of her manner, and he resolved 
to think no more about being a sailor. But 



WILLIAM BURTON. 101 

he had already thought too much upon 
the subject, to drive it easily from his mind. 
When Silas Hall came home, a few months 
after, William was with him constantly, 
listening to his entertaining stories, with 
an eagerness that greatly distressed his 
kind-hearted parents. From this time, he 
became less cheerful than usual, he lost 
his appetite, and seemed to be constantly 
struggling with some inward trouble. At 
last Mr. Burton said to his wife, '^ My dear 
Judith, it is plain our boy has set his heart 
upon being a sailor ; and I am afraid no 
good will come of crossing his inclination. 
We had better let him go one voyage ; and 
perhaps by that time, he will grow tired of 
it himself 

Mrs Burton was a discreet woman, and 
she at once perceived it was best to adopt 
the plan her husband proposed. The ten- 
der parents told William that they consen- 
ted to his becoming a sailor ; and although 
he little guessed how many sighs and tears 
it cost them, he felt a good deal of sorrow 
mingle with his joy. He was an affection- 
ate, disinterested boy ; and something with- 
in told him it was wrong to indulge his 
own inclinations at the expense of giving 
others pain. For a few days it was diffi- 



102 WILLIAM BURTON, 

cult to tell how he would decide ; but love 
of adventure finally conquered love of 
home. His father, deeming it best for him 
to go a short voyage at first, obtained a 
situation for him on board a vessel bound 
to Santa Cruz. 

Mary Hall, who had never passed a week 
in her life without seeing William, was 
very sad when she heard he was going a- 
way. '' If I could only persuade Silas to 
stay at home,'' said she, ' I should not feel 
so unhappy ; but to have them both go a- 
way is too much. I shall take no more 
comfort going in the woods for berries, or 
riding in the sleigh ; and who shall I have 
to bring me books to read, or tell me sto- 
ries, now ? " 

Silas and William tried to comfort her, 
by promising to return soon, and bring 
many pretty things. But Mary only cried, 
and said she loved them better than all the 
pretty things in the world. ''And I love 
you," replied William ; '' I am sure there 
is nobody but my mother, that I love bet- 
ter than I do you ; but it is foolish to take 
on so, just because I am going to see a lit- 
tle of the world." 

'' But you may be shipwrecked/' said 
Mary. 



WILLIAM BURTON. 103 

^^ Fiddle faddle," exclaimed Silas, who 
was a merry careless lad ; '^ and if he stays 
at home, perhaps the old cow will hook 
him. I never yet knew a woman that 
had a speck of courage." 

Mary did not like to be laughed at ; so 
she dried her tears, and said not another 
word about shipwrecks and disasters. She 
busied herself with making shirts for Si- 
laSj and in packing up such of her books 
as she thought William would like the 
best. These, with two large cakes and a 
cheese, which Mrs. Hall had made for him, 
were given to William the day he came to 
bid them good-bye. 

'^ I have put Robinson Crusoe among the 
books," said Mary ;^' because if you are 
cast away on a desert island, you may 
want to remember every thing that Crusoe 
did." 

^^ Why, Mary, I am only going to Santa 
Cruz," replied William ; "and there are 
no desert islands on the way. I shall be 
back again, before the pet lamb is a year 
old ; and that will be but little while, you 
know." 

" I hope it will be so," said Mary; "but 
Santa Cruz seems to me a great way off ; 
and though you and Silas do laugh at me, 



104 WILLIAM BURTON. 

I can't help thinking sometimes that you 
will never come back again.'' The tears 
came in Mary's eyes, as she talked ; and 
William, stoLit as he was, had to turn sud- 
denly away, to keep from crying. 

To part from his mother was a still 
harder task. All her kindness and all her 
love for him, rushed on his memory ; and 
when he spoke to her, his voice was very 
soft and low, because his heart was full. 
She put a copy of the New Testament in- 
to his hand, at parting, and said, '' Keep 
that as long as you live, my son. When 
you are tempted to do evil, let that be your 
guide." 

William went through his farewells with- 
out a tear. He fed the pet lamb, and pat- 
ted the calf, and shook hands with Mary, 
and kissed his mother, and then sprung 
lightly into the wagon, that was to convey 
him and his father, and his friend Silas, to 
Hartford. His hand trembled a little, and 
his heart swelled ; but he checked his tears, 
until he looked back and saw his good mo- 
ther standing on the door-step, watching 
for the last glimpse of the wagon, as it 
slowly rolled av/ay ; and then he could 
contain himself no longer ; he hid his face 
in his hands, and sobbed like an infant. 



WILLIAM BURTON. 105 

His father, in hopes of dissuading him from 
his purpose, told him that he could still re- 
turn home, if he chose ; for he could easily 
get him excused. He was then thinking 
so much of his mother, and of his pleas- 
ant rides with Mary, that I think he would 
have gone back, had not Silas watched 
him so anxiously. When he looked at his 
young companion, he brushed away his 
tears, and smiling said, "- You have often 
told me, father, that it was not a good sign 
for boys to change their mind. I have not 
changed mine. Silas says he felt just so, 
the first time he left home to go to sea ; 
but he has got over it now.'^ 

In a few minutes William brightened 
up, and they all talked cheerfully together 
during the rest of the ride. Parting with 
his father was a fresh trial ; but it cost 
him less pain than his first farewell ; for 
he was not leaving so many surrounding 
objects, that reminded him of home and 
childhood. 

On board the ship all was novelty, and 
he thought he should be perfectly happy ; 
but he soon found it was otherwise. The 
smell of the vessel made him very sea-sick 
the ropes took the skin oflT his hands, and 

PP 



106 WILLIAM BURTON. 

the rough sailors laughed at his awkward- 
ness, and called him ' a land-lubber.' 

During the first half of his voyage, he 
had in fact a great many miserable hours. 
Had it not been for Silas Hall, he would 
have been perfectly wretched ; and even 
he, being thoughtless and fond of fun, 
would sometimes join in the laugh against 
the ^ land-lubber.' By degrees, however, 
William became expert in his new duties, 
and learned to enjoy himself, as the other 
sailors did. 

When he returned home, after a prosper- 
ous voyage, his inclination for a seafaring 
life was not in the least abated. He 
brought home a new dress for his mother, 
and a neat little basket for Mary, filled 
with such curiosities as he had been able 
to pick up in the island. Among these was 
a necklace made of the hard black seeds 
of the soap-tree, so called because the seed 
-vessel contains a substance which answers 
all the purposes of soap. Another curiosi- 
ty was the large seed-vessel of the sand- 
box tree, which being stripped of its husk, 
and highly varnished, made a beautiful 
sand-box. The sides were finely curlea 
and fluted, and the ends were perforated 
with very neatly cut little holes, as if na- 



WILLIAM BURTON. 107 

lure intended it on purpose for a sand-box. 
When prepared for use, one of these ends 
was sealed up, and the sand passed through 
the other. William told her that if it had 
not been varnished immediately after the 
husk was taken ofTj it would have burst 
into a dozen pieces ; for this seed-vessel 
has an expanding power, like that of the 
Touch-me-not, and when it explodes, it 
makes a noise like a small pistol. 

William's short visit at home passed 
very pleasantly. He had not half time 
enough to tell all the new things he had 
seen, and ask all the questions he wanted 
to ask. His next voyage was to Liverpool; 
and this time he was separated from his 
friend Silas, who sailed about the same 
time for Rio Janeiro. He returned in safety 
from his second voyage, and found all well 
at home. He brought his mother and Ma- 
ry several small presents ; the most curi- 
ous of which was a perfect little pair ol 
scissors, not longer than a fine needle. 

He remained at home several months, 
during which time Silas came home for a 
few days. The three young friends were 
constantly together ; and though Mary 
loved her brother dearly, I think it would 
have made her blush to have asked her 



108 WILLIAM BURTON. 

whether she loved him better than she 
did WiUiam. 

One day, when they had been walking 
down by the pond, to gather lilies, Silas 
met them loitering along, looking very 
happy. He stopped, and with a very ro- 
guish glance, said, "William, you Lised to 
love Mary almost as well as your mother. 
Do you now ?" The young couple blush- 
ed very deeply, and both felt in their hearts 
that they were dearer to each other than 
brother and sister. Then Mary grew more 
bashful than she had been. She did not 
look William in the face when she talked 
to him, and when she wanted any thing 
done, she was more apt to ask Silas to do 
it. For several days they shunned each 
other, as if they were afraid. But one 
day, when William went to bring home the 
pet sheep and her little ones, he met Mary 
in the fields, and he told the sweet girl that 
he loved her with more than a brother's 
love, and that he should not be happy, un- 
less she consented to be his wife. Mary 
was very modest, but very frank. She 
readily acknowledged that she loved Wil- 
liam better than any body else in the world, 
and that she would consent to be his wife, 
if their parents had no objection 



WILLIAM BURTON. 109 

As soon as she reached home, she told 
her mother what WilUam had said, and 
how happy she was ; for the good girl nev- 
er had any secrets from her mother. The 
parents were all well pleased with the 
news ; indeed it had long been the cher- 
ished wish of their hearts to see their dear 
children united, when they had arrived at 
a suitable age. To be sure, they thought 
them too young at present ; for William 
was but twenty, and Mary but seventeen 
years of age. But they had always been 
distinguished for discretion, and an early 
maturity of character, which made them 
seem older than they really were. 

Mrs. Burton was particularly rejoiced at 
the engagement of the young couple. She 
knew that Mary was a very sweet-temper- 
ed, industrious girl, who would be always 
kind and affectionate, and keep her house 
as neat as wax- work. Beside all this, she 
hoped William loved her so well, that he 
would never again be willing to leave her 
for the dangers of the sea ; but in this she 
was mistaken. When a love of rambling 
has been once indulged, it is very difficult 
to conquer it. One of William's favorite 
shipmates wrote him word that a beautiful 
vessel, called the Sea-GuU, was about to 



110 WriLLIAM BURTON. 

sai for the Sandwich Islands, and that he 
never would have a better chance to see 
that famous race of savages, of whom Cap- 
tain Cook had given such an interesting 
account. William had always had a very 
strong desire to visit the islands of the Pa- 
cific. He said he was rather too young to 
be married, so he would take just one voy- 
age more, and then return to settle on the 
farm for life. 

'' Captain Cook was murdered at those 
very islands/^ said Mary, looking down, to 
hide the tears that were gathering in her 
eyes. 

'' I remember that," replied William, 
^^but the people are almost civilized now. 
While men trade with them, and even live 
there in perfect safety." 

'' But what good can it do for you to 
go?" asked Mary; ''you have read all 
there is to know about them." 

'' I shall lay up some money," answered 
William. 

'' But, my dear friend, we do not want 
money," answered the contented girl; ''we 
have every thing for our comfort, and a 
king need not wish for more." 

" The fact is, I have set my heart upon 
going," replied William ; '■ now don't say 



WILLIAM BURTON. Ill 

any thing to make me feel unhappy about 
it ; that's a good girl.'' 

Mary could not resist this appeal. She 
said no more against his project, but em- 
ployed herself busily in preparing every 
thing comfortable for his voyage. 

His mother could not so easily become 
reconciled to his wishes. She seemed more 
distressed than she had been at first. Her 
love for her only son increased to such a 
degree, and poured itself forth in such a 
multitude of affectionate attentions, that it 
became almost painful to him. Once he 
awoke at midnight, and found her stand- 
ing by his bedside, shading the light with 
her hand, and looking earnestly upon him 
with a mingled expression of love and anx- 
iety. She kissed him, and bade him good 
night, saying she had dreamed of seeing 
him struggling alone in the sea, and she 
could not go to help him. 

This incident affected the young man 
very much. He never forgot that expres- 
sion of his mother's face. I wonder such 
an affectionate son had the heart to go to 
sea, when he knew how many anxious 
hours it would cost those whom he loved 
so tenderly. But he did go ; and his friends 
tried to bear it as cheerfully as they could. 



112 WILLIAM BURTON. 

His mother's farewell words were, " Re- 
member your poor old mother, William, 
when you are in a distant land ; and never 
part with the Testament she gave you." 

The young sailor promised tearfully, and 
pressed Mary's hand, as he whispered, ^^I 
shall come back before two years are gone, 
and then we shall be so happy in our own 
little home." The affectionate girl cover- 
ed her face with her hands, and burst into 
tears. 

Slowly and reluctantly, William turned 
away. The last glimpse of his friends 
was the waving of handkerchiefs, which 
were gradually lost in the distance ; and 
then he did indeed feel all alone in the 
world. 

•iU -^ -iU •^ -^ -^ •U' 

T^ ^ TT »7C' •7S" TV 'fC- 

This voyage was not destined to be as 
fortunate as the preceding ones. The cap- 
tain was cruel and tyrannical, and the 
crew were of course dissatisfied and disor- 
derly. William was disgusted with their 
proceedings, and a thousand times wished 
himself at his own peaceful and happy 
home. Things grew worse and worse on 
board the vessel. At last, the crew became 



WILLIAM BURTON. 113 

SO angry at the captain, that in a rage one 
night, they set all the officers adrift in a 
boat, and swore they would shoot them if 
they tried to come back. William would 
have given a good deal to save the poor 
men from the danger to which they were 
exposed ; but he could not do any thing to 
help them, and he was afraid to say any 
thing, lest the violent crew should kill him. 

When the officers were gone, the mis- 
guided crew became very riotous. They 
were intoxicated more than half the time. 
They were afraid of going to the Sandwich 
Islands, lest they should be taken up by 
some of their countrymen there, on suspi- 
cion of having murdered their officers ; and 
had they wished to go to their destined 
port, not one of them knew how to steer 
the vessel, and no one was willing to obey. 

During this gloomy period, William very 
often thought of his kind mother, and his 
gentle Mary. He seldom lay down for the 
night, without remembering how he had 
waked and found his mother watching ov- 
er him with such depth of love. He sol- 
emnly resolved, if God pleased to spare his 
life, and restore him safely to his family, 
that he would never leave them more, 
in. 8 



114 WILLIAM BURTON. 

The only consolation he had left in his 
forlorn condition was the company of the 
young man who had written to urge him 
to undertake this ill-fated voyage. He was 
a sober, good-hearted lad, who never join- 
ed in the excesses of the sailors. William 
and he held many counsels together in pri- 
vate, and they both agreed to run away 
from the vessel, whenever the crew land- 
ed ; for they felt certain that their fate 
could not be worse than it would be if they 
remained with such drunken and desperate 
men. 

After drifting about for some weeks, they 
came within sight of a long group of isl- 
ands, in about the middle of the Pacific 
Ocean, and a few degrees north of the 
equator. A near approach showed pleas- 
ant groves of cocoa-nut and bread-fruit 
trees, with a few Indian cottages sprinkled 
here and there. As the crew were greatly 
in want of fresh water, they resolved to 
land on one of the islands. 

As soon as the Sea Gull was observed 
from the shore, the natives began to put 
off in their boats. They were at first ra- 
ther afraid ; but one of them being temp- 
ted to come on board, received some glass 
beads and old nails, which pleased him 



WILLIAM BURTON. Il5 

mightily. This encouraged the others to 
eome within speaking distance, and a 
friendly intercourse was soon established. 
The crew then put off from the Sea Gull 
in boats, in search of fresh provisions and 
water. 

The Mulgrave Group are surrounded, as 
most of the Pacific Islands are, with large 
reefs of coral, which make it very difiicult 
to come near the shore. In consequence of 
this, the crew of the Sea Gull could not 
approach the land, for the purpose of fas- 
tening their boats ; and if they were left 
unfastened, there was danger of their drift- 
ing out into the open sea. The savages, 
perceiving this, seized hold of the rope, and 
diving down into the water, tied it fast to 
a strong branch of coral. This is a rude 
way of casting anchor ; but it is very safe, 
and well suited to their reefy shores. 

The Mulgrave Group presents a very 
picturesque appearance. It consists of long 
narrow islets, with reefs of coral, and spots 
of verdure interspersed, dotted with clumps 
of cocoa-nut and bread-fruit trees, and 
pretty little wigwams, made of sticks in- 
terwoven with leaves. The natives were 
very friendly and obliging. They would 
run after the white men all day long, with 



116 WILLIAM BURTON. 

their arms full of cocoa-nuts and bread- 
fruit, in hopes of getting a few rusty nails 
in return. William and his friend John 
Gordon were much troubled to hear the ri- 
otous crew say they liked the place so 
much that they intended to build a town, 
and spend their lives there. When they 
first heard this determination, they almost 
despaired of escaping from them ; but Wil- 
liam said, '' Let us keep quiet, and trust in 
God. He will prepare the way for us, if 
we resign ourselves to his will.'' His mo- 
ther's Testament was now invaluable to 
him. It afforded him great consolation, 
and was associated with dearest recollec- 
tions of his far-off home across the waters. 

The crew erected a tent on shore, in 
which they placed the tools and provisions 
from the Sea Gull. Had they treated the 
natives with justice and kindness, I dare 
say they might have been very happy in 
those quiet and beautiful islands. But 
some of the sailors were bad men, and 
nearly all of them were becoming more and 
more addicted to intoxication. 

William Burton and John Gordon were 
the only ones that uniformly dealt honestly 
and gently with the savages. They nevei 
cheated them, never told them an untruth, 



WILLIAM BURTON. 117 

never spoke to them in anger, and occa- 
sionally made them some trifling presents, 
to conciliate their good will. William gave 
the chiefs wife a bright yellow cotton 
handkerchief, with a picture of Washing- 
ton in the middle ; and never was a Duch- 
ess half so proud of a coronet of diamonds. 
In the excess of her joy she threw her arms 
round his neck, and kissed him as eagerly 
as a little child would have done. This 
method of testifying her gratitude was not 
very pleasing to the young man ; for the 
naked arms of the savage were well smea- 
red with cocoa-nut oil, which sends forth 
a most nauseous smell; and Burton's jac- 
ket and vest were well nigh ruined by her 
embrace. Some of the crew would have 
been in a great rage at this ; but Burton 
knew the old woman meant it kindly, and 
he did not show the least displeasure. 

Gordon gave the chief a small hatchet, 
for which he returned a great heap of co- 
coa-nuts. The next day he gave the 
chief's little daughter, about seven or eight 
year's old, a string of red glass beads ;. and 
it would have amused you to see how the 
little creature capered, and clapped her 
hands. Her name was Tamahoogah. A 
few hours after she received her present, 



118 WILLIAM BURTON. 

she came running towards Burton, with a 
straw mat, which her mother had woven, 
and which she made signs that he must 
accept. He took it very gratefully, be- 
cause he thought it would make her happy 
to see that her present was valued. The 
straw was indeed beautifully white, and 
the workmanship was elegant. The edge 
was ornamented with black diamonds, 
worked with straw that had been colored 
with the husk of the cocoa-nut. 

The women wear two of these mats tied 
about the waist with a beautiful round cord 
of braided straw. They ornament them- 
selves with necklaces and bracelets made 
of shell, some of which are really tasteful; 
and when they can obtain bright flowers, 
they make them into wreaths, with which 
they decorate their heads. 

The men wear long bunches of grass 
made of the bark of a running vine. These 
bunches are of a reddish colour, and do 
not look unlike a horse's mane. They 
likewise wear ornaments made of whale's 
teeth and shells. They are of moderate 
stature, and generally very finely formed. 
Their deportment is manly, and their walk 
very majestic. Their countenances are 
intelligent, their features comely, and their 



WILLIAM BURTON. Il9 

complexion not very dark. They have 
long glossy hair, which is always tied very 
neatly on the top of their heads. They 
are very remarkable for white, even teeth, 
and a sweet breath, which may be attrib- 
uted to their simple and healthy mode of 
hfe. 

They appeared to be an innocent and 
amiable set of people ; and had all the 
white men been as good as Burton and 
Gordon, they might have associated to- 
gether in safety and peace. But the wick- 
ed crew would steal their cocoa-nuts, and 
refuse to give them any thing in return. 

The natives, having this bad example 
before them, stole muskets and hatchets 
from the tents. The white men fired at 
one of the thieves, and killed him. This 
provoked the savages, and they came in 
great numbers, with stones and spears 
pointed with sharp fish-bones, to kill the 
white men. The chief laid hold of Bur- 
ton, and dragged him into the bushes; and 
an old man treated Gordon in the same 
manner. Both of them expected to be 
murder^ed ; but they soon discovered that 
they were hidden among the bushes to be 
safe till the massacre should be over. Ev- 



120 WILLIAM BURTON. 

ery other individual of the crew perishea 
by the hands of the exasperated natives. 

Lugoma, the chief, signified by signs, 
and by the few words which Gordon's for- 
mer visits to the Pacific Islands enabled 
him to understand, that Burton must live 
with him to do his work, and Gordon must 
serve the old man who had saved his life. 

It was a desolate lot thus to be cut off 
from all intercourse with white men, and 
obliged to become servants to savages ; but 
their situation was much better than they 
had reason to hope ; and with sincere 
hearts, they returned thanks to God for 
their preservation. 

William Burton was very fortunate in 
the master he served. Lugoma loved him 
as if he had been his own son. He gave 
him plenty to eat, and never required him 
to work too hard. He looked upon him as 
a superior being, and seemed to think he 
knew every thing. The chiefs hut was 
clean and comfortable, about ten or fifteen 
feet high, with a sort of garret, separated 
from the room beneath by a floor of sticks 
thickly interwoven with leaves. The low- 
er floor was paved with the finest pieces of 
coral. A clump of cocoa-nut and bread- 
fruit trees spread their waving tops and 



WILLIAM BURTON. 121 

broad green leaves above it, filling the mind 
with ideas of abundance and beauty. 

Near the hut was a small space of ground, 
which was tabooed \ that is, consecrated- 
It was the burial place of the island chiefs. 
At the head of each grave was a cocoa- 
nut tree, bound round with dry leaves, to 
show that no man must touch the fruit. 

Little Tamahoogah, who followed Bur- 
ton like a shadow, accompanied him and 
her father to this sacred spot, begging him 
at every step not to tread on the graves of 
her ancestors. Burton took great pains to 
please them in this, and in all other re- 
spects. He never gave them offence but 
once, and that was through ignorance of 
their customs. 

As he sat at work one day, mending a 
fishing-net, he whistled a tune. Upon this, 
every one of the family began to shriek 
and howl ; and Lugoma hastily rose, and 
covered his mouth with his hand. Burton 
afterward found that they had a great dread 
of whistling, because they thought it would 
bring the spirits of the dead about their 
houses. He ever after refrained from whist- 
ling ; for he did not wish to frighten the 
ignorant creatures, whom he could not in- 
qq 



122 WILLIAM BURTON. 

Struct, because he understood their lan- 
guage so imperfectly. 

But the savages were not always quite 
as attentive to his feelings, as he was to 
theirs. He found every metal button strip- 
ped from his clothes, and he afterwards 
saw them worn as necklaces. He did not 
care very much about this. He could do 
very well without buttons in such a place 
as the Mulgrave Islands ; and he remem- 
bered that these simple creatures had never 
been taught any better, and that an old 
brass button was as valuable in their eyes, 
as a ruby would be to us. But he was not 
quite as patient when a boy ran off with 
one of his striped mittens, into which Ma- 
ry Hall had knit his name. He ran full 
speed after the thief, but he could not ov- 
ertake him. When he told Lugoma of his 
loss, he either could not. or would not, un- 
derstand him. He never saw his mitten 
again. 

This made him more careful of his other 
treasures. He kept them carefully hidden 
among the leaves of the garret floor ; and 
the first time he and Gordon were trusted 
out alone, they buried the other mitten, 
which was likewise marked with his name, 
a little locket containing some of Mary's 



WILLIAM BURTON. 123 

hair, a purse belonging to Gordon, and ten 
Spanish dollars. The only things he ven- 
tured to keep about him were Mary HalFs 
Robinson Crusoe, and the Testament his 
mother had given him. 

Gordon was less fortunate than his com- 
panion in captivity. He was treated kind- 
ly, but the old man who had saved his life 
was wretchedly poor. His family lived 
upon a kind of food, called bup^ and even 
of this they had not half enough. The 
Bup tree is from twenty to thirty feet high, 
and not more than six inches in diameter. 
It stands on several roots, or prongs, by 
which it is propped up two or three feet 
from the ground. The fruit exactly resem- 
bles a pine apple. When ripe, it has a 
nauseous perfume, and a cloying taste. 
When half ripe, it is baked under hot stones 
and eaten. Some eat it raw. The juice 
has a sweet taste, like that of a green corn- 
stalk. The knowledge of this tree would 
be invaluable to shipwrecked seamen, as it 
is found every where in the Pacific islands, 
and will sustain life when nothing else can 
be found. 

Gordon would have liked it very well 
for a variety : but he had nothing else to 
eatj and not enough even of that. Being 



124 "Wli.LTAM BURTON. 

obliged to work very hard, he soon gre^ 
sickly, and lost his strength. Many plans 
of escape were formed by him and Burton; 
but it was impossible to execute them. — - 
The natives had burned the Sea Gull, af- 
ter stripping her of every bit of iron, and 
rag of cloth. It was dangerous to put out 
to sea in a canoe, without pilot or compass; 
and even if they had ventured to do so, 
the savages, in their rude but very swift 
sailing boats, would soon have overtaken 
them. By degrees they abandoned all 
thoughts of such projects ; and concluded 
to wait patiently, till some European vessel 
should visit their lonely and unfrequented 
residence. 

Burton's situation was tolerably comfor- 
table in every respect, except separation 
from the friends he loved ; but poor Gordon 
was half starved. As soon as they learned 
the language sufficiently to make them- 
selves understood. Burton besought Lugo- 
ma to take his wretched companion into 
his employ ; telling him it was the only way 
to save 'his hfe. At first, Lugoma said he 
had not bread-fruit and cocoa-nut enough 
for another person ; but he finally consented. 

And now the two friends were happiel 
than they had been at any time since they 



WILLIAM BURTON. 125 

left home. The two books were indeed a 
treasure. They spent hours and hours ov- 
er them, in the privacy of their Uttle garret 
For many months, they succeeded in keep- 
ing them hidden from the natives; but Lu- 
goma one day caught Gordon looking at the 
pictures in Robinson Crusoe. He had no 
idea what a book was; but he seemed very 
much frightened, and snatching it out of 
his hand, he instantly tore it into a million 
of pieces. When they remonstrated with 
him, he said there was witchcraft in it, and 
it would bring the spirits of the dead about 
his hut. Having caught sight of the Tes- 
tament, he would have treated that in the 
same manner, had not Burton told him it 
would make the Great Spirit very angry if 
he destroyed it. This alarmed him so 
much that he did not venture to touch it. 

Soon after, his little daughter Tarnahoo- 
gah fell sick and died. The superstitious 
chief thought the Great Spirit had killed 
her, because he had torn Robinson Crusoe; 
and from that time the sight of the Testa- 
ment made him tremble, and he did not 
dare to contradict the white men. He seem- 
ed to think they knew every thing in the 
imiverse, and could do every thing. Bur- 
ton tried to teach him about God, who 



..26 WILLIAM BURTON. 

made all, and sustained all ; but he could 
never find out whether he understood what 
was said. One day, in order to try whe- 
ther he had any idea of a Superior Being, 
he asked him who made it thunder 1 Lu- 
goma looked up with great simplicity, and 
answered, ^' I suppose you can make it 
thunder.'' 

Little Tamahoogah was buried beside 
her ancestors. A cocoa-nut tree, bound 
with withered leaves, was placed at the 
head of the grave. The body was borne 
on sticks to the place of interment, follow- 
ed by a large concourse of friends, who 
moved along in a disorderly manner, some- 
times howling and lamenting, and some- 
times playing funny tricks to make each 
other laugh. When the child was buried, 
a little canoe with a sail to it, laden with 
bread-fruit and cocoas, was sent off from 
shore, with a fair wind, in order, as they 
said, to bear the spirit of the dead away 
from the land of the living. 

The white men were very sorry for Ta- 
mahoogah's death ; for she was a cheerful, 
affectionate little creature, and very much 
attached to them. She would run up the 
cocoa trees like a monkey, to gather fruit 
for them, and she took particular pleasure 



WILLIAM BURTON. 127 

in gathering fresh sweet leaves for their 
pillows. Burton wished to carve her name 
and age on the bark of the tree ; but Lu- 
goma would not allow it, for fear it would 
bring her spirit to the hut. 

Burton and Gordon lived with Lugoma 
four years ; during which time they learnt 
to climb the trees as actively as the na- 
tives, to strip off the hard bark of the co- 
coa with their teeth, to paddle a canoe as 
swiftly, and to fish as expertly as the chief 
himself. They taught the women new 
fashions of braiding straw, and making 
baskets, and instructed Lugoma in the art 
of raising vegetables in his garden. The 
Mulgrave language became perfectly famil- 
iar to them, and they were frequently trust- 
ed to carry messages to the neighboring 
chiefs. 

This life would not have been without 
its charms, had not their hearts been sick 
for home. In the solitude of his garret, 
how often did poor Burton think of Mary's 
tears, when he said to her that he should 
come back in two years, and then ^ they 
should be so happy.' How often did he 
think of his good mother, when she laid 
her hand so affectionately on his head, and 
said, ^ William, if you love your mother 



128 WILLIAM BURTON. 

you will make up your mind to stay at 
home.' He never opened his Testament, 
without thinking of her. One night, after 
he had been reading it, he fell asleep ; and 
he saw his mother standing by his bedside, 
looking on his face with the same fondness 
and anxiety that she had done, when she 
dreamed that he was drowning. He start- 
ed up, and asked Gordon if he had seen 
any one in the room ? He could not believe 
it was a dream. It seemed as if her kind 
face had been actually bending over him. 

This incident made his heart yearn more 
than ever for home. He took every oppor- 
tunity to watch the ocean, in hopes of see- 
ing a vessel. But once, and once only, 
during four years, did he see a speck on 
the horizon, that looked something like a 
distant sail. Better luck came at last. 

They were one day employed in fishing, 
according to the fashion of the Mulgraves. 
A stone pen was built by the shore ; a long 
line of dried cocoa-nut leaves was spread 
round it, and Burton and Gordon waded 
out beyond the leaves, to drive the fish in- 
to the pen. It is remarkable, that when 
the fish are once inclosed in this way, they 
never attempt to pass the lin-e of cocoa- 



WILLIAM BURTON. 129 

leaves, though they might swim under 
them just as well as not. 

While the young men were thus employ- 
ed, Burton clapped his hands and exclaim- 
ed, '^ A ship ! a ship ! an American ship !" 
His eyes did not deceive him. An Ameri- 
can ship was indeed about to anchor a- 
mong the Mulgraves, in search of fresh 
water. Unluckily, Lugoma saw it before 
they did ; and immediately came with his 
canoe, and brought Burton and Gordon a- 
shore, before their countrymen caught sight 
of them. They were immediately convey- 
ed to the garret, and guarded by ten In- 
dians, who had orders to put them to death 
if they attempted to escape, or even to 
speak loud. They remained there three 
days, during which time they frequently 
heard the voices of their countrymen in 
the room below. Once, William was very 
sure he heard Silas Hall's voice, and it 
seemed as if his heart would burst, so ea- 
ger was he to spring into his arms. 

Perhaps the ship would have sailed a- 
way, and no one on board would have sus- 
pected that two fellow-countrymen were 
left captive in the island. But it so hap- 
pened that Silas Hall, who was actually 
ITT. 9 rr 



130 WILLIAM BURTON. 

on board this vessel, bound from Canton to 
New York, began to dig for water at the 
identical spot where William had buried 
his mitten and other treasures. He started 
when he saw the name of William Burton 
knit in the mitten ; and hastened to make 
the discovery known to his officers. This 
at once excited the suspicion that the crew 
of the Sea Gull had been murdered by these 
savages. Strict inquiry was made, but 
they received little or no information. The 
constant sight of metal buttons, nails, &c. 
convinced them, more and more, that white 
men had been on the island. 

At last, they threatened the chief, if he 
did not make known to them what had be- 
come of these white men, they would go 
and bring a large ship with guns, that 
would make the whole Mulgrave Group 
shake, and kill all their men, before they 
had time to look about them. This threat 
alarmed Lugoma. He asked Burton and 
Gordon if the white men spoke true. They 
told him that their countrymen had guns 
louder than thunder, that would kill twen- 
ty men at one blow. Lugoma stretched 
himself up very tall, and said he would go 
and fight them with his musket. This 
made them laugh : for he had nothing but 



WILLIAM BURTON. 131 

an old rusty musket without powder or 
ball ; but he had such an idea of its pow- 
er, that he thought he could conquer all 
his enemies with it. 

Burton assured him that he would have 
bad luck, if he did not let him see his coun- 
trymen. Lugoma asked if his book told 
him so. Burton put on a very serious look, 
and told him to wait and see if bad luck 
did not come upon him. This seemed to 
frighten the simple chief. He said he 
would send them to the ship, if he were 
not afraid their countrymen would come 
and kill his people, for having murdered 
the crew of the Sea Gull. Burton tore a 
blank leaf from his Testament, and wrote 
as follows, with a stick dipped in cocoa- 
nut dye : — 

*' Two Americans are here in captivity 
in the garret of LugomaJs hut. Be res- 
olute in demanding thcTn ; but on no ac- 
count let any one of the natives be injured 
for past transactions. They ivere less to 
blame than others^ and, they have been ex- 
trem^ely kind to us. W. Burton.^ ^ 

He gave this paper to the chief, and told 
him that he and all his people would be 
safe, if he would carry it to the captain of 



132 WILLIAM BURTON. 

the ship. But Lugoma shrank back and 
screamed, ^' Take it way ; take it way. It 
will bring the spirits of my fathers to my 
hut.'' 

Burton then begged that he and Gordon 
might carry it ; and gave his word of hon- 
or that no harm should come to him, or 
his people. This was at last agreed upon. 

The timid chief, with a troop of follow- 
ers, went with them, constantly exclaim- 
ing, " We have loved you, and fed you ; 
and you must not deceive us." 

The sailors did not recognise their cap- 
tive countrymen when they first came in 
sight ; for the tropical sun had made them 
almost as dark as the Indians. They wore 
mats round their bodies, and their hair was 
tied upon the top of their heads. When 
Burton exclaimed, "Here we are!" it sent 
a thrill through every heart. They eager- 
ly gathered round him. But he, having 
caught sight of Silas Hall, in a boat at a 
little distance from shore, rushed into the 
water, leaped into the boat, and throwing 
his arms round his friend's neck, burst in- 
to a passionate flood of tears. 

As soon as he could speak, his first words 
were, " Is all well at home ?" 

" AH well," replied Silas ; and his own 



WILLIAM BURTON. 133 

voice was so choked that he could hardly 
speak. 

" And dear Mary, and mother ? God 
bless them !" exclaimed William. 

Silas repeated his assurances that they 
were well, when he left home. 

Oh, that blessed word home ! It makes 
the heart of the strong man leap like the 
heart of a little child. For a few minutes, 
William was really delirious with emotion. 
He did not know what he said. He 
jumped, and clapped his hands, and laugh- 
ed, and cried all in a minute ; nor could he 
be quieted, until he had had a hearty fit of 
sobbing. 

Gordon, though deeply affected, was less 
so than his friend. Lugoma looked on 
them both with utter astonishment. He 
did not know what to make of their pro- 
ceedings. At first, he was a little afraid 
of the white men, notwithstanding the pro- 
mises he had received. But the present 
of an axe for himself and a bright red shawl 
for his wife, made him more confiding ; 
and before twelve hours had elapsed, he 
went on board, and seated himself as fa- 
miliarly as any of the crew. 

When he returned to the island, he called 
to Burton and Gordon to go with him, and 



134 WILLIAM BURTON. 

was grievously disappointed when they 
told him they must stay on board, and re- 
turn to their own country. At first, he re* 
fused to be comforted. He repeated again 
and again, ^' Who shall I have to fish for 
me, and mend my canoe, and plant my gar- 
den, when you are gone ? Lugoma will be 
left alone in his old age." 

Burton and Gordon reminded him 
that they both had fathers in a distant 
land, whose hearts yearned for a sight of 
their long-lost sons. This seemed to touch 
the feeUngs of the kind old man ; and when 
Silas Hall promised to give him two pigs 
and a whole suit of clothes, and plenty of 
excellent seed to plant his garden, he con- 
sented, though with great reluctance, to 
give his captives in exchange. 

The day the vessel got under sail, a sin- 
gular and picturesque group were assem- 
bled in front of Lugoma's hut. Burton and 
Gordon, dressed in sailor's clothes, and ac- 
companied by several of the crew, went on 
shore to make some parting present, and 
bid farewell to the kind untutored family, 
where they had so long resided. 

It was a pretty sight to see the natives, 
dressed in their best mats and finest orna- 
ments, scattered about under the shade of 



WILLIAM BURTON. 135 

the broad-leaved trees. Some of them 
were very still and melancholy, others 
were showing their gaudy beads triumph- 
antly, and two of them held the pigs in 
their arms, and fondled them as if they 
had been delicate babes ; the ungrateful 
pigs, meanwhile, kicked, scratched, and 
squealed, with all their might. Lugoma 
and his wife were very sad. They really 
loved the two young Americans, and 
when about to part from them, they threw 
themselves into their arms with loud lam- 
entations. Burton and Gordon promised 
to send them a present by the first oppor- 
tunity, and to visit them again if ever they 
came near the Mulgrave islands. The 
simple and affectionate couple followed the 
ship several miles in their canoe. Then 
calling out, ^^ You must come and see Lu- 
goma again, before he dies,'' they sorrow- 
fully turned the boat toward their island 
home. The vessel swept on with a fair 
wind ; and Burton and Gordon lost sight 
of the Mulgrave islands, never to see them 
more. 

The wonderful adventures of the two 
wanderers furnished an abundant theme 
for conversation, as the Flying Fish pur- 
sued her homeward track. The young 



136 WILLIAM BURTON. 

men always spoke of their former masters 
with kindness, and even with affection ; 
but they sometimes indulged in a laugh at 
the extreme simplicity and ignorance of the 
untutored Mulgraves. 

^^ What figures they were," said Gordon, 
^^ when they dressed themselves up in the 
tattered garments of our crew. Some had 
on only a pair of pantaloons, another an 
old coat, without any buttons, and another 
nothing but a ragged jacket, which had lost 
one sleeve. In this fantastic and beggarly 
garb, they went dancing about, looking at 
themselves and each other with infinite 
pride and satisfaction.'' 

Silas Hall said he did not think they lost 
much by exchanging their straw mats and 
bunches of grass for ragged jackets ; but 
WilUam Burton insisted that their native 
dress, rude as it was, had something wild, 
graceful, and becoming in its appearance. 

^' Nothing amused me so much," said he 
" as Lugoma's veneration for my old mus 
ket, without a particle of powder or ball 
His last request was that I would not carry 
away my musket ; for if I did, his enemies 
would come and kill him. When I pro- 
mised to leave the musket, he seemed to 
feel perfectly safe." 



WILLIAM BURTON. 137 

In such discourse they passed away ma- 
ny of the tedious hours of a long voyage. 
They had a great deal of stormy weather, 
and the Flying Fish was several times 
driven out of her course, and enveloped in 
so thick a fog, that her track was com- 
pletely lost for several days. During one 
of these fogs, the vessel struck on a reef of 
sharp coral, and was so much injured that 
there was great danger of her sinking. By 
taking an observation of their latitude and 
longitude, they ascertained that they had 
gone out of their course considerably to the 
north-west, and were now close upon the 
Society Islands. They were obliged to put 
into Otaheite for repairs ; during which 
they suffered the usual inconveniences of 
having their ropes, tools, nails, &c. stolen 
by the natives. A stout savage ran off* 
with one of Silas HalFs boots ; not know- 
ing, or forgetting, that one could do him 
no good without the other. Silas after- 
ward found the boot wrapped in a piece of 
tappa, and hidden among a heap of cocoa- 
nuts. When he drew it forth, the natives 
made a great laugh, and seemed to think 
their thieving countryman had done a very 
witty thing. 

Considerable delay was occasioned by 



"^38 WILLIAM BURTON. 

the loss of their track, and the necessity of 
repairs. William was more restless and 
impatient than he had been during his 
ong captivity. The captain used to jest 
with him, when he saw him so very anx- 
*ous. He said he was very sorry he could 
not accommodate him with any thing 
swifter than a Flying Fish ; he wished in 
his heart he could charter the sea-serpent 
for his accommodation. 

But there was one affectionate spirit at 
home even more impatient than his own. 
Mr. Hall had seen it announced in the pa- 
pers that the Flying Fish had been spoken 
off the Ladrones, on her way homeward ; 
and from that day, Mary read the ship 
news with greater eagerness than ever. 
Mince-pies, and apple-pies, and pumpkin- 
pies, had been made again and again for 
Silas, and still he came not. The anxious 
girl began to think in her heart that he too 
was gone ; that she had lost both brother 
and friend. 

She was one afternoon sitting at the 
window sewing, and trying to talk cheer- 
fully to her mother, when she saw the 
mail-stage stop at the post-otfice. There 
was no one in the house to go for the pa- 
per, and Mary put on her bonnet and dart- 



WILLIAM BURTON. 139 

ed out, saying, ^^ I cannot wait, dear 
mother. I must go." In a few minutes 
she came back, and, without stopping to 
seat herself, turned eagerly to the ship 
news. Her mother jfixed an anxious, in- 
quiring look upon her, and saw her turn 
very pale, and stagger backward towards 
the wall, as if she had received a heavy 
blow. She sprang toward her, and said, 
half shrieking, ^' Oh, Mary, is he dead ?'' 

'^ No, no !'' replied Mary, faintly. The 
effort to speak relieved the icy feeling at 
her heart, and she burst into tears. Mrs. 
Hall took the paper from her hand, and 
read — ^' The Flying Fish spoken off the 
Bermudas ; having on board William Bur- 
ton and John Gordon, picked up at the 
Mulgrave Islands, where the remainder of 
the Sea-GulFs crew were murdered by the 
natives, after having mutinied and turned 
their officers adrift in a boat, which has 
never since been heard of 

'' His poor mother !" exclaimed Mrs. 
Hall ; and she too laid down the paper 
and wept. 

4^ ^ ^ ^ M, M, ^ 

*«• «ir Tr "Tr T^ 'IP *»? 

Three weeks afterward, Mary was star- 
tled at midnight, by hearing a voice near 



140 WriLLIAM BURTON. 

her bedside, saying, ^' Mary— dear Mary !" 
It was her brother Silas : and, a few min- 
utes after, WilHam Burton clasped his 
long-lost treasure to his bosom. After he 
had looked deeply and tenderly into her 
eyes for a few minutes, and rapidly kissed 
all the members of her dear family, he ex- 
claimed joyfully, ^' And now for my dear 
mother !'' 

The expression of Mary's countenance 
changed suddenly, as she said, '' You had 
better wait till morning, William." 

^^ Oh, mother won't mind being waked 
up, when she finds who waked her," re- 
plied he, as he gaily turned to go. 

^' But, William dear, do wait till morn- 
ing, and then I will go with you," said 
Mary. 

'' I cannot wait so long to see my dear 
good mother," answered he, impatiently ; 
'' I must go wake her." 

Mary took his hand, and held him back. 

'^ What is the matter?" asked he, turn- 
ing pale. 

She burst into tears, and exclaimed 
^^ Oh William, you cannot wake her. She 
will wake no more in this world." 

The young man did not speak for many 
minutes. He seemed as if suddenly de- 



WILLIAM BURTON. 141 

prived of his senses. When Mr. Hall, by 
way of consolation, spoke of his mother's 
blameless life and peaceful death, he bow- 
ed his head on his hands, and answered, 
in a tone of bitter anguish, ^^ Oh it would 
have been better for me to have died in 
the Mulgrave Islands.'' 

But the next day he was more resigned, 
and could listen to all the details of his 
mother's illness and death. She began to 
decUne when William had been gone two 
years and a half ; and a year after, she 
was in her grave. 

'' Oh, Mary, do you think I killed her?" 
asked he, with such an expression of utter 
wretchedness, that Mary pitied him from 
the very depths of her heart. 

She assured him that the physicians had 
said, from the beginning of her illness, 
that nothing could save her ; and that, 
though she had constantly talked of him, 
she had never spoken a word of reproach. 

'^ She was too kind to do that," replied 
he, in a tone of deep sadness ; *' but who 
can tell how much sorrow I caused 
her ?" 

Months after, as they stood by his mo- 
ther's grave, he said to Mary, ^' How she 
always loved me ! How she comforted 



142 WILLIAM BURTON. 

all my troubles ; what warm mittens she 
knit for me ; how she always saved a por- 
tion of every thing for me, even if she de- 
prived herself. When I grew older and 
more manly, with what delight she used 
to gaze upon me. And to think I broke a 
heart that loved me so ! Oh, Mary, I 
shall never forget her anxious look, as she 
stood by my bedside. Even now, I seem 
to feel the pressure of her gentle hand up- 
on my head, and hear her loving voice 
saying, ^ William, if you love your mo- 
ther, you will make up your mind to stay 
at home.' Oh, Mary, if I had never gone 
to sea, perhaps she might have been alive 
now." 

His father, who loved him as one would 
love a darling son raised from the dead, 
tried all he could to make him think he 
had no reason to reproach himself ; but 
William could never feel quite satisfied 
that he had not been too negligent of his 
mother's wishes. 

He was married to Mary about six 
months after his return. Her wedding 
dress was of plain white muslin, and she 
wore no other ornament than one natural 
white rose in her hair. Those who observ- 
ed the tasteful simplicity of her appearance, 



WILLIAM BURTON. 



143 



and her quiet unaffected manners, proph- 
esied that such a teally modest girl would 
make the best of wives ; and WiUiam says 
they were not mistaken. 



144 



AUNT MARIA'S SWALLOWS. 



A TRUE STORY. 



" Petit a petit, 
L'oiseau fait son nid." 





WAS in the spring-time of the year, 

The latter part of May, 
When two small birds, with mer- 
ry cheer, 
Came to our house one day. 



I watched them with a loving smile, 
As they glanced in and out. 

And in their busy, chirping style, 
Went peering all about. 

I knew that they would build a nest } 

And joy it was to me, 
That the place they liked the best, 

Beneath our roof should be. 



AUNT maria's swallows. 145 

In the crotch of a shehering beam, 

They found a cozy spot ; 
And never before or since, I ween, 

Chose birds a better lot. 

The green boughs of a tall old tree 

Gave them a pleasant shade, 
While, through an arch, they well could see 

Where sun and river played. 

And here they came in sunny hours, 
And here their nest they made, 

Safe, as if hid in greenwood bowers. 
For none their will gainsaid. 

I think they felt a friendly sphere, 
And knew we loved them dearly ; 

For they seemed to have no thought of fear, 
And planned their household cheerly. 

They fanned me with their busy wings, 

And buzzed about my head ; 
Never were such familiar things 

In field or forest bred. 

The father was a gentle bird, 

Right gracefully he wooed, 
ss 10 III 



146 AUNT Maria's swallows. 

And softer notes were never heard, 
Than to his mate he cooed. 

And, when their clay-built nest she lined, 

He'd go, in sunny weather, 
And search and search, till he could find 

Son.e little downy feather. 

Then high would swell his loving breast, 

He felt so very proud, 
And he would sidle to the nest, 

And call to her aloud. 

And she would raise her glossy head, 

And make a mighty stir. 
To see if it were hair or thread. 

That he had brought for her. 

And she would take it from his bill, 

With such an easy grace, 
As courtly beauties sometimes will 

Accept a veil of lace. 

They did not know, the pretty things ! 

How beautiful they were ! 
Whether they moved with rapid wings. 

Or balanced on the air. 



AUNT Maria's swallows. 147 

And yet they almost seemed to know 

They had a winsome grace ; 
As if they meant to make a show, 

They'd choose their resting-place. 

On a suspended hoop they'd swing, 

Swayed by the buoyant air. 
Or, perched on upright hoe, would sing 

Songs of a loving pair. 

Swiftly as rays of golden light. 
They glanced forth to and fro, 

So rapid, that the keenest sight 
Could scarcely see them go. 

The lover proved a husband kind, 

Attentive to his mate ; 
He helped her when the nest was lined, 

And never staid out late. 

And while she hatched, with patient care, 

He took his turn to brood, 
That she might skim along the air, 

To find her needful food. 

He did it with an awkward hop. 
And the eggs seemed like to break, 



148 AUNT Maria's swallows. 

Just as some clumsy man would mop, 
Or thread and needle take. 

But there with patient love he sat, 
And kept the eggs right warm, 

And sharply watched for dog or cat, 
Until his mate's return. 

And when the young birds broke the shell, 

He took a generous share 
In her hourly task to feed them well. 

With insects from the air. 

But, when they taught the brood to fly, 

'Twas curious to see 
How hard the parent birds would try. 

And twitter coaxingly. 

From beam to beam, from floor to nest, 
With eager haste they flew; 

They could not take a moment's rest, 
They had so much to do. 

For a long while they vainly strived, 
Both male and female swallow ; 

In vain they soared, in vain they dived 
The young ones would not follow. 



AUNT MARIANS SWALLOWS. 149 

The little helpless timid things 
Looked up, and looked below, 

And thought, before they tried their wings. 
They'd take more time to grow. 

The parents seemed, at last, to tire 

Of their incessant labors ; 
And forth they went, to beg or hire 

Assistance from their neighbors. 

And soon they came, with rushing noise, 

Some eight or ten, or more, 
Much like a troop of merry boys, 

Before the school-house door. 

They flew about, and perched about, 

In every sort of style, 
And called aloud, with constant shout, 

And watched the nest the while. 

The little birds, they seemed half crazed, 

So well they liked the fun ; 
Yet were the simple things amazed 

To see how it was done. 

They gazed upon the playful flock, 
With eager, beaming eyes, 



150 AUNT Maria's swallows. 

And tried their winged ways to mock, 
And mock their twittering cries. 

They stretched themsel ves,with many a shake 

And oft, before they flew, 
Did they their feathery toilet make, 

And with a great ado. 

Three times the neighbors came that day 

To teach their simple rules, 
According to the usual way, 

In all the Flying Schools. 

The perpendicular they taught, 

And the graceful parallel ; 
And sure I am, the younglings ought 

To learn their lessons well. 

Down from the nest at last they dropped, 

As if half dead with fear ; 
And round among the logs they hopped, 

Their parents hovering near. 

Then back again they feebly flew. 
To rest from their great labors. 

And twittered a polite adieu 
To all their friendly neighbors. 



AUNT Maria's swallows. 161 

Next day, they fluttered up and down : 

One perched upon my cap ; 
Another on the old loose gown, 

In which I take my nap. 

Each day they practised many hours, 
Till they mounted up so high, 

I thought they would be caught in showers, 
And never get home dry. 

But when the sun sank in the west, 

My favorites would return. 
And sit around their little nest, 

Like figures on an urn. 

And there they dropped away to sleep, 
With heads beneath their wings. 

I would have given much to keep 
The precious little things. 

But soon the nest became too small, 

They grew so big and stout ; 
And when it would not hold them all, 

They had some fallings out. 

Three of the five first went away, 
To roost on the tall old tree ; 



152 AUNT MARIA'S SWALLOWS. 

But back and forth they came all day, 
Their sister-kins to see. 

My heart was sad to find, one night, 
That none came back to me ; 

I saw them, by the dim twilight, 
Flock to the tall old tree. 

But still they often met together, 
Near that little clay-built nest ; 

'Twas in the rainiest weather 
They seemed to like i^ best. 

Yet often, when the sun was clear, 
They'd leave their winged troops, 

Again to visit scenes so dear, 
And swing upon the hoops. 

Just as when human beings roam. 

The busy absent brother 
Loves to re-visit his old home, 

Where lived his darling mother. 

Months passe(f away, and still they came, 

When stars began to rise, 
And flew around our window pane, 

To catch the sleepy flies. 



AUNT MARIA'S SWALLOWS. 



153 



Into our supper-room they flew, 
And circled round my head ; 

For well the pretty creatures knew 
They had no cause for dread. 

But winter comes, and they are gone 

After the Southern sun ; 
And left their human friends alone, 

To wish that spring would come. 




154 



LAEIBOO. 



SKETCHES OF LIFE IN THE DESEET. 




m^//7^'' 



ARIBOO lived in Af- 
rica, in the country 
of the Tibboos, which 
lies east of the great Des- 
ert of Sahara. A large 
part of that country is a 
plain of sand ; and the 
soil is so salt, that in 
many places it is cracked open. In the 
cavities thus formed are suspended beau- 
ful crystals of salt, like the delicate frost- 
work we see on the windows, in a cold 
winter morning. But in these parched 
places are little green spots, called oases ; 
and in one of these lived Lariboo. The 
verdant valley was well watered by 
springs ; there were plenty of the delicate 
berries of the suag shrub ; the creeping 
vines of the colocynth bore an abundance 
of blossoms ; and the kossom, with its red 



LARIBOO. 155 

flowers, looked as gay as a May-day queen. 
— Small herds of graceful gazelles fed in 
this pretty retreat ; the faithful domestic 
camels might be seen in hundreds, re- 
clining at their ease, or patiently carry- 
ing their heavy load of salt to the market 
of Mourzook ; and beautiful bright birds 
darted about, like flying rainbows, filling 
the air with cheerful songs. 

Lariboo was very happy in this lovely 
valley. True, her daintiest food was cam- 
el's milk, and a little ground millet ; and 
she lived in a small mud hut, which we 
should hardly think good enough for the 
cows. But it is better to live in a mud 
hovel, with a kind heart and a cheerful 
temper, than to live in a palace, selfish 
and discontented. Lariboo was of an af- 
fectionate disposition, and she had a hus- 
band and baby that she loved very much. 
She thought the baby was extremely pret- 
ty ; though it had bits of coral stuck through 
its ears, and black wool, that curled all o- 
ver its little head, as close as Brussels car- 
peting. Next to the baby, she loved two 
tame gazelles, with great brown mild- 
looking eyes. They came every morning 
to feed out of her hand, and share her cal- 
abash of camel's milk. 



156 LARIBOO. 

The Tibboos are a good-natured merry 
race, extravagantly fond of singing and 
dancing. Lariboo was reckoned quite a 
belle among them. I don't suppose you 
would have thought her very good-look- 
ing, if you had seen the oil streaming over 
her face, coral passed through her nose, 
and broad brass rings on her arms and 
ancles. But she thought herself dressed 
very handsomely ; and I do not know why 
it is considered more barbarous to bore the 
nose for ornaments, than to pierce holes 
through the ears, as our ladies do. As for 
the dark tint of her complexion, it would 
be considered beautiful by us, as it was 
by the Tibboo beaux, if we had been ac- 
customed from infancy to see all our friends 
of that color. The Africans, who never 
see white men, or see them only as enemies, 
who come to carry them into slavery, con- 
sider the European complexion ghastly 
and disagreeable. When they describe 
the spirit of wickedness, usually called the 
Devil, they always paint him as a white 
man. 

It is singular that the Tibboos should be 
so merry and thoughtless as they are ; for 
they are constantly exposed to danger. 
West of their country live a fierce and ter- 



LARTBOO. 157 

ribte tribe, called Tuaricks. They hate 
the Tibboos ; and once or twice a year 
they come down among them, to kill or 
carry into slavery every one they meet. 
The Tibboos are very much afraid of them. 
When they hear them coming, they run 
and hide themselves among steep rocks, 
from the summits of which they hurl stones 
and spears at their enemies. These Tua- 
ricks are a wandering race of robbers, with 
flocks and herds, and they consider it very 
disagreeable to live in houses and cultivate 
the ground. They are the only native Af- 
ricans who have an alphabet. They have 
neither books nor paper ; but their strange 
letters are found inscribed all over the dark 
rocks of their country. 

One day, when Lariboo was out in the 
fields, picking suag berries, and talking to 
her baby, who was slung over her back, 
and lay peeping its black eyes over her 
shoulder, she heard the frightful cry, " The 
Tuaricks are coming ! The Tuaricks are 
coming !" She ran as fast as she could, to 
hide among the rocks ; but the Tuaricks 
caught her, and carried her off* to sell her 
for a slave. Many others were killed, or 
taken prisoners. In the hurry and confu- 
sion of the fight, Lariboo could not get 



168 LARIBOO. 

sight of her husband ; and she did not 
know whether he were dead or ahve. 

The poor woman sobbed as if her heart 
would break ; but the savage invaders did 
not pity her. They drove the prisoners 
along before their camels, and if ihey did 
not go as fast as they were ordered, they 
whipped them cruelly. Day after day, 
they continued their wearisome journey 
without any hope of escape from these 
cruel conquerors. The Tuaricks had heard 
of a large caravan of Arabs encamped near 
Bournou, and thither they intended to 
carry their prisoners and sell them. 

Sometimes they passed through little 
verdant valleys ; but in general their route 
lay through wide barren deserts, with no- 
thing to relieve the dreary monotony of the 
scene, but here and there a black rock, that 
reared its gloomy head above the heaving 
sand. This sand, put in motion by the 
wind, forms high perpendicular hills in 
the course of a single night. The camels 
are made to slide down these drifts ; in 
which operation they can only be kept 
steady by the driver hanging with all his 
weight on the tail ; otherwise, they would 
tumble forward, and throw the load over 
their heads. 



LARIBOO. 159 

Every few miles, there were skeletons 
of poor negroes, left in the desert to die, 
when there was not food enough for them 
and their masters. Near springs of water, 
they several times saw fifty or sixty dead 
bodies lying together unburied. The bones 
were very brittle, owing to the heat and 
dryness of the climate ; and as the camels 
of the Tuaricks passed along, they would 
crack them into fragments beneath their 
feet. 

Poor Lariboo thought this would be her 
fate. Many of her countrymen had died 
on the way ; and before she had been a 
fortnight in the desert, the sufferings she 
underwent from hunger and thirst made 
her extremely weak and dizzy. One day, 
she begged to rest a little ; for she was so 
weary and lame, that she could not keep 
up with the camels. The cruel Tuaricks 
snatched her baby from her, and threw it 
on the hot sand, telling her she would not 
be so tired if she had no load to carry. 

The poor child was very ill, and the 
wretched mother shrieked and screamed, 
and begged to be allowed to carry it again; 
but the more she sobbed and wept, the 
harder they beat her. Weary, lame, and 
heart-broken as she was, she was compel- 



160 LARIBOO. 

led to keep up with the camels, and leave 
her baby to die. 

The mournful wailing of her little one, 
as the sa\rages threw it on the sand, soun- 
ded in her ears all day long. In the despe- 
ration of her misery, she hoped that she too 
would soon be left to perish in the burning 
wilderness. Toward night, the Tuaricks 
were terrified by the sight of several pro- 
digious pillars of sand moving across the 
desert ; sometimes with majestic slowness, 
and sometimes with incredible swiftness. 
These pillars are whirled up and kept in 
motion by the wind. They are sometimes 
so very high that their tops are lost in the 
clouds. Sometimes they break suddenly 
in the middle, and fall ; at other times 
they seem to melt away and disperse in 
the distance, like vapor. They are very 
terrible, when they come stalking, like 
great shadowy giants, across the silent des- 
ert. 

The Tuaricks watched these columns 
with great anxiety, as they came rapidly 
toward them. There was no use in at- 
tempting to escape. An Arabian horse, at 
his swiftest speed, would not have kept a- 
head of them. The wretched Tibboo pris- 
oners looked on the approaching destruc- 



LARIBOO. 161 

tion without any additional feelings of des- 
pair. They were weary of life ; and they 
thought it would be belter to be buried in 
the sand than sold for slaves. Poor Lari- 
boo was even afraid the pillars would dis- 
perse before they reached her. ^' I shall 
be at rest beneath the sand," thought she , 
^^ and perhaps the same wind that buries 
me in the desert, will cover my poor baby." 
The magnificent columns came sweep- 
ing on ; they approached nearer and near- 
er ; and at last rushed upon the travellers, 
burying dozens in their rapid course. La- 
riboo was among the number overwhelm- 
ed ; but it chanced that the sand rested 
lightly on her face, so that she had the 
power of breathing. The force of the 
blow stunned her, and rendered her insen- 
sible. The Tuaricks, thinking her dead, 
left her where she fell. How long she re- 
mained stupified, she knew not. When 
she recovered consciousness, the painful 
glare of the mid-day sun had given place 
to the mild beauty of evening. The mo- 
tion of the blowing sand sounded, in the 
deep stillness, like the murmuring of a 
mighty river ; the moon and stars shed a 
soft clear light from the cloudless heaven ; 
III 11 



162 LARIBOO. 

and the breeze swept along with refreshing 
coolness. 

When Lariboo first recovered her senses, 
she did not realize where she was. She 
tried to rise, but found herself kept down 
by a load of sand. She looked around her. 
All was calm and bright in that wide des- 
ert, which, like the ocean, seemed to stretch 
its flat surface into infinite space. All was 
still — so intensely still ! Not a bird, not 
an insect, disturbed the deep repose. La- 
riboo was all alone in that vast silent wil- 
derness ! 

Her first sensation was joy that she had 
escaped the power of the Tuaricks ; but 
the next moment she was filled with fear. 
She remembered that she was without food, 
and many days' journey from any human 
habitation. Then came the thought of li- 
ons and panthers, and hyenas, more dread- 
ful than all. She knew that the last men- 
tioned of these terrible animals were al- 
ways prowling about in the night, seeking 
for the dead ; and her heart fainted with- 
in her, at thoughts of her deserted babe. 

She strained her eyes, gazing into the 
far distance, in every direction, to see if 
danger was approaching. But nothing 
was in motion. The earth below was as 



LARIBOO. 163 

Still as the heavens above. By degrees, 
this profound quiet produced drowsiness ; 
and Lariboo, overcome by excessive fatigue 
and exhaustion, slept soundly and sweetly, 
forgetful of solitude, starvation and terror. 

She was awakened by the pitiless rays 
of the sun, shining full upon her, with the 
intolerable ardor of a tropical climate. — 
With considerable exertion, she released 
herself from the sand, under which she 
was buried. The prospect around her was 
dreary and hopeless in the extreme. Far 
as the eye could reach, stretched an end- 
less level of sand, without bush or tree. 
Here and there, glassy particles sparkled in 
the sunshine, like polished steel. Not a 
cloud floated in the dazzling sky. Not a 
breeze stirred the surface of the desert. 
The earth and the heavens seemed on fire ; 
and where they met at the horizon, there 
appeared a fine glittering line of light, like 
the sharp edge of a scimitar. 

Lariboo wished to return to the spot 
where her babe had been thrown the day 
before. But in the desert it is often ex- 
tremely ditficult, even for skilful guides to 
find their way. There are no objects to 
serve as land-marks for the eye or the 
memory. The light sand is so easily blown 



164 LARIBOO. 

about, that no tracks remain in it ; and the 
high steep hills that are thrown up by the 
wind in one night, are scattered before the 
next. The only way she could guide her 
steps, was by observing the sun, and bear- 
ing in mind that theTibboo country lay to 
the north. All day long, she pursued her 
dreary journey with languid and weary 
steps. Not a shrub nor a fountain could 
she find, and she was dying with hunger 
and thirst. Had it not been for a faint 
hope of finding her babe alive, she would 
probably have lain down and made no fur- 
ther exertion to save life. She passed sev- 
eral human skeletons, but saw nothing of 
her poor little infant. 

The sun was setting, and with it depart- 
ed the last glimmering of hope from the 
heart of poor Lariboo. Utterly discourag- 
ed, and too weak to drag herself along, 
she laid herself down on the sand to die. 

She had not remained there many min- 
utes, when a dark speck in the air hovered 
before her languid eye. As it came nearer, 
she saw it was a gold-shafted cuckoo. The 
sight of this bird at once renewed her cou- 
rage. She knew that an oasis must be 
near ; for birds never live in the desert, 
where there are no trees, berries, or insects. 



LARIBOO. 165 

This idea, by reviving her mind, impar- 
ted temporary strength to the perishing 
body. She rose and pursued her journey 
to the westward, from which quarter the 
bird had first come in sight. She was not 
mistaken in her hopes. A Uttle verdant 
spot soon appeared amid the waste, hke a 
green island in the ocean. Here the ahuost 
famished traveller quenched her thirst at 
a little rill, and feasted upon delicious ber- 
ries. But, alas, this charming oasis made 
the mother's heart very sad ; for she was 
certain she had never seen it before. This 
fact proved that she was out of her path, 
and not likely to find the body of her child. 
Her only comfort was the thought that the 
poor little creature must by that time be 
relieved from suff*ering by death. 

Having taken food, and reposed herself 
a few minutes on the grass, Lariboo began 
to look round, to see what she could dis- 
cover in her lonely resting-place. A group 
of trees attracted her attention, and thith- 
er she directed her footsteps. The cool 
shade was extremely refreshing ; and af- 
ter having wandered all day long in the 
desert, without meeting a single living 
thing, even a solitary fly, it was a real de- 
light to watch the bright birds fluttering 



166 LARIBOO. 

about, to hear the monkeys chattering, and 
see them throwing down nuts and boughs 
from the trees. 

Having found a Httle clump of date- 
palms on a rocky knoll, and plenty of ber- 
ries, she resolved to stay in this charming 
place a day or two to recruit her strength. 
She put her arms round a date-tree, and 
kissed it, and wept like a child. She had 
been so long accustomed to the unshaded 
sands of the desert, that a tree seemed to 
her like a long-lost friend. 

At a short distance from the cluster of 
date-trees, the wanderer discovered a cave, 
or grotto, formed by overarching rocks. 
Being worn down with fatigue, she enter- 
ed it, stretched herself on the cool earth, 
and sank into a profound slumber. It was 
past midnight when she waked ; and great 
fear came upon her, when she heard the 
powerful breathing of some animal near 
her. Was it a lion, a panther, a hyena, 
or the disgusting and fierce ourang-outang? 
In vain she tried to conjecture from the 
sound of its breathing; and the grotto was 
so dark, that she could distinguish nothing. 

Once or twice, indeed, as the moon glan- 
ced through crevices, she thought she dis- 
covered two great sparks of fire, which 



LARIBOO. 



167 



might be glaring eyes. But no motion was 
heard, and the animal breathed as if asleep 
Lariboo was, of course, thoroughly wak- 
med for the rest of the night. Th3 slight- 
est noise made her hair rise with terror, 
and her eyes felt as if they were starting 
from their sockets. 

When the light of morning dawned, it 
revealed a huge panther lying near her. 
The great creature slept with his head be- 
tween his paws, as comfortably as an old 
house-dog by the fire-side. Lariboo's heart 
beat, as if it were flying from her body. 
She was afraid to make any eff'ort to es- 
cape ; for she could not gain the entrance 
of the grotto without stepping over the 
body of the savage beast ; and should she 
wake, it was highly probable that Lariboo 
would serve her for a breakfast. 

It was some encouragement to observe, 
that the panther's mouth and paws were 
covered with blood. ^' She will be less 
fierce if she be not hungry," thought La- 
riboo ; ^' her stomach being already full, 
perhaps she will have the goodness not to 
eat me up, at present ; and in the mean- 
while I may possibly escape." 

Then she thought of her infant exposed 
on the sand ; ard the blood on the pan- 



168 LARIBOO. 

ther's jaws made her head dizzy and her 
heart sick. 

But even in the midst of her anxiety 
and distress, she could not help admiring 
the beauty of this magnificent animal. — 
Her legs and throat were covered with 
pure white hair, extremely soft ; black cir- 
cles, like velvet, formed pretty bracelets 
for her paws ; her tail was white, with 
broad black rings ; and the hair on the 
rest of her body was of a bright golden 
yellow, shaded with rich brown spots. — 
She lay stretched out in quiet majesty, her 
paws folded under her nose, and her long 
smellers, like silver threads, waving gent- 
ly, as she breathed in her deep slumber. 
A maltese cat, reposing on an ottoman, 
could not have appeared more graceful. 

Had it not have been for the intense fear 
with which Lariboo watched for the open- 
ing of her fiery eyes, I dare say she would 
have thought the panther even more beau- 
tiful than her favorite gazelles. 

At last, the powerful animal awoke. — 
She stretched out her paws, shook herself, 
and washed her neck and ears, as prettily 
as a kitten. Lariboo's blood ran cold, and 
her heart seemed to drop down like lead. 
She did not dare to breathe. The panther 



LARIBOO* 169 

was quite unconscious of the presence of 
company, until she turned her head to 
wash the hair on her glossy sides. She 
instantly stopped her operations, and fixed 
an earnest gaze upon the trembhng woman. 
Their eyes met. Extreme terror some- 
times affects one like the night-mare, and 
takes away all power of word or motion. 

Lariboo felt as if she would rush any 
where to avoid the gaze of this terrible 
creature ; but she could not even take her 
eyes away. The panther put one paw on 
her arm, and they stood eye to eye, as if 
neither could possibly look elsewhere. 

The human eye, when it looks directly 
and steadily into the eye of an animal, has 
a fascinating power, which seems almost 
like the stories told of magic. Probably 
this mysterious influence restrained the 
panther in the first moment of surprise. 

As she stood there thus, quite still, Lari- 
boo recovered her habitual boldness and 
presence of mind. She raised her hand, 
patted the panther on the neck, and gently 
scratched her head. All animals like to 
have their heads rubbed, and the panther 
was evidently pleased with it. Lariboo, 
encouraged by this gracious reception ot 
her friendly advances, stooped down and 

iiu 



170 LARIBOO. 

breathed into her nostrils, caressing her the 
while ; for she had heard the hunters say 
that human breath, thus inhaled, is the su- 
rest way of taming a wild beast. But, 
like putting salt on the tail of a bird, the 
difficulty is to get near enough to do it. 

The panther manifested a decided lik- 
ing for the courageous woman. Her eyes 
gradually softened in expression ; she began 
to wag her tail like a joyful dog, and purr 
like a petted cat. Her purring, to be sure, 
had not much resemblance to the gentle 
murmur puss makes when she is pleased ; 
it was so deep and strong, that it sounded 
much more like a church organ. 

Lariboo was very glad to gain the good 
will of her formidable companion. She 
redoubled endearments, from an instinctive 
wish to avoid the present danger, though 
she had very little hope of ultimate escape. 
" Her stomach is full now,'' thought she ; 
*^ but doubtless she will eat me up, as soon 
as she is hungry." 

She rose, and prepared to leave the grot- 
to. The panther made no opposition to 
her movements, but followed her like a dog. 
Lariboo having eaten a few dates for break- 
fast, threw some to her companion ; but 
bhe smelt at them, and turned away with 



LARIBOO. 171 

cool contempt. As they walked along, 
they came to the group of trees, where our 
traveller first rested, when she arrived at 
the oasis. The monkeys made a great 
chattering at sight of the panther. One of 
them was at a little distance from the 
others, digging in the ground for worms. 
He made great haste to scamper up a tree, 
but the panther caught sight of him, and 
at one bound caught him in her tremend- 
ous jaws. Lariboo trembled as she heard 
the monkey's bones crack. '^I am safe 
for a while longer," thought she ; -^ but 
what will become of me, when she is hun- 
gry, and can find no monkeys to eat ?'' 

The panther, having finished her meal, 
put her bloody paws upon Lariboo's lap, 
and rubbed her head against her shoulder, 
as if asking for caresses. Terrible as the 
creature was, the woman really began to 
feel an affection for her ; for love causes 
love ; and when one is all alone in a wide 
desert, the company of a well-behaved 
panther is better than utter solitude. 

For many hours Lariboo leisurely saun- 
tered about, collecting dates, nuts, &c. by 
which she hoped to sustain life while wan- 
dering through the desert. While thus 
employed, she heard the loud cher ! cher ! 



172 LARIBOO. 

of the moroc^ a small cuckoOj called the 
Honey-guide. Lariboo knew the sound 
very well : for she had been used to hunt- 
ing wild bees, and was very expert at get- 
ting their honey. She followed the cuc- 
koo, until it stopped at an old tree, in the 
decayed trunk of which she found a wild 
bee's hive. Lariboo had a stout battle with 
the bees, and after she had killed them, 
she made a delicious dinner of the honey ; 
taking care to leave plenty enough for her 
winged guide. 

This cuckoo is a cunning little creature. 
He cannot kill the bees himself, but when- 
ever he sees a human being, he begins to 
cry cher ! cher I that they may follow him 
to the hive, and get the honey for him. 

There is a small grey and black animal 
called a Ratel, which follows the cry of 
the Honey-guide, and digs up the nests of 
the wild bees with its long claws. 

The panther never lost sight of her new 
friend. Sometimes she wandered away for 
a few minutes ; but she soon came bound- 
ing back, rubbing against Lariboo, as if 
asking to have her head scratched. The 
weaker party of course deemed it safe to 
treat the stronger with distinguished atten- 
tion ; and their friendship seemed to in- 



LARIBOO. 173 

crea&-e every minute. The panther looked 
on the taking of the bees' nest with great 
indifference. It was an affair she did not 
understand ; and if she had, she probably 
would have had great contempt for those 
who loved honey better than raw mon- 
keys. 

Lariboo, having gathered her honey, sat 
down beside a large thorn-bush to rest her- 
self. The thorns on this bush were stuck 
quite full of locusts, beetles, and little birds. 
Some of them were all dried up ; others 
were still alive on the thorns. These crea- 
tures had been taken by the butcher-bird ; 
so called, because when he captures an in- 
sect or a bird smaller than himself, he car- 
ries it to his bush and sticks it on a thorn, 
that he may always have a dinner ready, 
when he wants one. As Lariboo sat there 
making a strong basket of palm-leaves, to 
carry the honey she had gathered, the pan- 
ther lay at her feet, watching her move- 
ments. At last, her eyes began to close ; 
for slie was getting very drowsy. ^^ Now 
is mwime to escape,'' thought the African, 
^'As^pr going through the desert with such 
a ferocious companion, it is out of the ques* 
lion. True, we are very good friends now 



174 LARIBOO. 

but hunger will certainly change her feel- 
ings toward me." 

When she thought the mighty animal 
was sovmd asleep, Lariboo stole softly and 
swiftly away. For nearly twenty minutes 
she ran along as fast as her nimble feet 
would fly. She was just beginning to think 
she might safely pause to take breath, 
when she heard a great noise behind her. 
It was the panther, which came bounding 
over the ground, taking the enormous leaps 
peculiar to the animal. As she came up 
with the runaway, she seized hold of her 
cotton mantle with her teeth ; but she did 
it with a gentle force, as if in play. La- 
riboo patted her head and smiled, and the 
panther began to purr and wag her tail. 
It was plain enough that she had taken a 
very decided fancy to her new comrade, 
and was determined to remain with her, 
whether her company was desired or not. 
The woman, finding escape impossible, re- 
solved to do her utmost to preserve the at- 
tachment thus singularly forraed^ , 

She was anxious to return to the^%|bboo 
country, and her strength being sufSBient- 
ly recruited, she resolved to leave t*e oa- 
sis, as soon as the sun went down. She 
preferred to travel in the night, because it 



LARIBOO. 176 

was so much cooler than the day ; and she 
was in quite as much danger of wild beasts 
while staying in the oasis, as she would be 
in the open desert. Having provided her- 
self with as many nuts and dates as she 
could carry, she began her journey. The 
panther trotted along by her side, like a 
great Newfoundland dog ; sometimes leap- 
ing a great ways ahead, then stopping un- 
til she came up ; at other times jumping 
and curvetting, and rolling over in the sand, 
as if she were in a great frolic. 

It was a beautiful sight to see these two 
strange companions travelling along through 
the desert, where every^ thing else was so 
very still. Not even the wings of a bird 
ruffled the air. The wilderness stretched 
itself out in every direction to the utmost 
verge of the horizon. As the breeze play- 
ed lightly with the sand^ it rippled and tos- 
sed like the gentle heaving of the ocean in 
a calm. The resemblance to the ocean 
was mad^still more strong by glassy par- 
ticles oysand, that glittered in the moon- 
beams, like sunshine on the water. 

ICteward morning, Lariboo laid down to 
takesome rest,before the sun rose to scorch 
every earthly thing with his burning rays 
The panther folded up her paws, and soon 



176 " LARIBOO. 

began to breathe sonorously, in a profound 
slumber. They had been sleeping for some 
time, when Lariboo was suddenly waken- 
ed by the noise of a tremendous scuffle. 
She sprang on her feet, and perceived by 
the light of the stars that some furious an- 
imal was fighting with the panther. The 
awful sight made her dizzy and faint, and 
she fell back in a swoon. When conscious- 
ness returned, the panther was standing by 
her, licking her hands affectionately with 
her great rough tongue. 

The morning light revealed part of the 
carcase of a great striped hyena, lying on 
the sand. Lariboo caressed her faithful 
friend with enthusiasm. ^' My dear pro- 
tector, had it not been for you," she said, 
^^ this terrible beast would have devoured 
me while I was sleeping." She actually 
wept, as she fondly stroked the beautiful 
glossy hair of the superb animal. 

All that day they travelled without see- 
ing any thing that had life. '^^ It is lucky 
you had a hyena for breakf8S||:," said 
Lariboo, as she patted the panther's head; 
'^ otherwise you might be tempted to eat a 
friend." 

During the succeeding day, the power- 
ful beast tasted no food. Her playfulness 



LARIBOO. 177 

ceased, her eyes glared fiercely, and she 
began to make a deep mournful noise. In 
this emergency, Lariboo no longer felt safe 
in trusting to her affection. Though over- 
come with fatigue, she could sleep only by 
short and fitful snatches, so great was her 
fear. 

The panther disappeared in the night, 
and did not return during the following 
day. The thought that they had parted 
forever made the lonely traveller extremely 
sad. But just at sunset, she heard the 
well-known cry, which she had learned 
to love most heartily. The panther came 
bounding along, at his usual speed, spring- 
ing high from the earth, and clearing the 
ground faster than the swiftest race-horse. 

No dog was ever more joyful to meet 
his master, than she was to rejoin Lariboo. 
She rubbed her sides against her friend, and 
purred, and seemed as if she would never 
be satisfied with caresses. 

Lariboo was equally delighted to meet 
the creature that loved her so strangely 
and so well. Her happiness was not a lit- 
tle increased by perceiving that her jaws 
were bloody. She had evidently obtained 
the food, of which she went in search ; and 
in. 12 WW 



1 78 LARIBOO. 

It was now obvious that nothing short of 
absolute starvation would tempt the fierce 
brute to make a meal of her beloved com- 
panion. 

In the utter loneliness and eternal mo- 
notony of the desert, the sight of any 
harmless living thing is an indescribable 
joy to the weary traveller. Even the flight 
of a little bird, far up in the clear atmos- 
phere, is watched with the utmost eager- 
ness. Under these circumstances, the af- 
fectionate attentions and graceful gambols 
of the panther were a constant source of 
delight. 

The fact of receiving her love as a vol- 
untary and most unexpected tribute, and 
the consciousness of being entirely in her 
power, rendered the pleasure of this strange 
friendship more intense and exciting. — 
Without it, Lariboo would not have kept 
up sufiicient strength and spirit to sustain 
her through her weary wanderings. 

It was more than a fortnight before the 
travellers entered the Tibboo country. — 
During that time they met with two oases, 
where Lariboo stopped to gather nuts and 
berries, and refresh herself with water. 
In one of these places, she had great fun 
with the monkeys, pelting them with small 



LARIBOO. 179 

Stones, while they, in their rage for imita- 
tion, threw down nuts in return. 

Occasionally they met a clump of date- 
trees standing all alone in the desert. These 
singular and valuable trees often grow in 
a parched soil, where all around is barren. 
Within the bark is a sweet nourishing sub- 
stance, called the marrow of the date-tree ; 
the fruit is cool, juicy, and refreshing ; the 
young leaves are very good food ; the old 
ones, when dried, are made into mats and 
baskets ; and the branches are full of strong 
filaments, which are manufactured into 
ropes and coarse cloth. The sight of them 
in the desert is peculiarly cheering ; not 
only on account of their own manifold 
uses, but because they always indicate that 
water is not very far off. No wonder the 
Africans love their date-tree ! 

The panther continued to be an invalu- 
able travelling companion ; a playmate by 
day, and a guard by night. The African 
tribes sometimes dig deep ditches in the 
desert, to entrap their enemies. Being 
lightly covered with sand, they are danger- 
ous snares to the unwary traveller ; and 
Lariboo fell into one of them. The pan- 
ther, seeing she could not extricate herself, 
seized hold of her braided girdle, as a cat 



180 LARIBOO. 

does with her kitten, and at one bound 
placed her in safety. She was a Httle 
bruised by the rough strength of her dehv- 
erer, but not otherwise injured. 

The woman fared better than the faith- 
ful brute. She could live on very little 
food, and she carried her mantle full of 
dates and berries. But both the travellers 
suffered much from hunger during their 
long journey. The panther was once so 
ravingj that she seized her companion vio- 
lently by the leg ; but her teeth did not en- 
ter the flesh, and a few caresses made her 
relent. Lariboo felt then that death was 
not far off; and at times she felt very will- 
ing to die. She was famishing herself, and 
it was plain that the panther could not 
much longer endure the pangs of hunger. 

But a different ending of her troubles a- 
waited her. They were close to the con- 
fines of a country, which here and there 
presented a solitary hut. A large antelope, 
chased and caught by the panther, satis- 
fied her hunger, and she was again affec- 
tionate, Lariboo likewise found a few ber- 
ries, to keep life in her almost exhausted 
frame. 

She was afraid to enter any of the huts, 
lest she should encounter enemies of hei 



LARIBOO. 181 

tribe, and be carried to the sea-coast to be 
sold into slavery in foreign lands. But a- 
bout three hours after the death of the an- 
telope, she espied a hunter, with bow and 
arrow. The panther saw the same sight, 
and darted forward to seize him. But the 
hunter was very expert ; and as the terri- 
ble animal raised herself to spring upon 
him, he shot her directly in the throat with 
a poisoned arrow, and then laid himself 
flat upon the ground. The panther, in her 
dying agony, cleared his prostrate body at 
one leap, and after a few convulsive bounds, 
she rolled powerless on the ground. 

When Lariboo came up, the beautiful 
but terrible creature fixed a mournful lov- 
ing look upon her, and tried to lick her 
hand. Lariboo would have given any 
thing to have saved her life. When she 
was dead, she sobbed like a child who had* 
lost a favorite dove. ^' My guardian of the 
desert," she exclaimed, " you saved my 
life ; you protected me from the fury of 
your own species; but I could not save 
you from mine." She smoothed the rich 
glossy hairs of her dead favorite, and wa^ 
tered them plentifully with her tears. 

The hunter thought her conduct very 
strange . but when she told how the pan- 



i82 LARIBOO. 

ther had loved her, and watched over her, 
and refrained from harming her, even 
when she was very hungry, he no longer 
wondered at her grief. But he convinced 
her that the fierce animal could not possi- 
bly have gone far with her into an inhab- 
ited country ; because if she were hungry, 
she would attack any human being she 
happened to meet. 

" It was lucky for you," said he, '^ that 
you happened to gain her affections, while 
her stomach was full. If she had been 
fasting, when you took possession of her 
cave, it would have done but little good to 
caress her.'' 

Lariboo knew very well that the pan- 
ther would not have been a safe travelling 
companion in any inhabited country ; but 
.she could not help weeping whenever she 
thought of the remarkable friendship they 
had formed for each other. She remained 
several days at the hunter's cabin, to rest 
and recruit herself, and then departed on 
the route which he told her would lead to 
Bilma, the capital of the Tibboo country. 

It is a mean little town, with mud walls, 
and derives its importance solely from the 
numerous salt-lakes around it ; salt being 
the most valuable article of commerce in 



LARIBOO. 183 

Africa. The warlike Tuaricks come to 
these lakes, load whole caravans with salt, 
and undersell the Tibboos in all the mar- 
kets ; yet the timid Tibboos have so long 
been in the habit of considering them mas- 
ters, that they do not dare to say a word. 

At Bilma, Lariboo found a caravan of 
Tibboo traders going to Mourzook. Under 
their protection she reached her home in 
safety, and found her husband alive and 
well. Her wonderful adventures served 
for many an hour of gossip ; and some of 
the Tibboo poets made songs about the 
panther, and sang them, with the banjo 
for an accompaniment. 

She gave such a fascinating account of 
the oasis where she first met her superb 
four-footed friend, that her husband per- 
suaded twenty or thirty of his neighbors 
to go there with him to reside. *' Lariboo 
says we shall find plenty to live upon,'' 
said he ; '' and as it lies far from the route 
between Mourzook and Bornou, we shall 
be safely out of the way of the tyrannical 
Tuaricks." 

They accordingly removed thither with 
twenty camels, and the two tame gazelles. 
Lariboo never knew what became of her 
babe; but probably its little bones whi- 



■% 



184 



LARIBOU. 



tened and crumbled in the desert. The 
skin of the panther hung in her hut to 
the dav of her death. 



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